


Cafe Shifter

by Besin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Coffee Shop, AU - Werewolves are known, BAMF Kira, Disabled Characters, M/M, PTSD, Slow Build, Social Anxiety, Wolf!Derek, Wolf!Laura, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Down a side street and just off Flushing is a small cafe that caters to the needs of the caffeinated Supernatural. Stiles, a human with some ties to the not-so-human, stumbles across this shop by accident one day. He doesn’t expect to get attached to the workers and clientele, but attached he gets.</p><p>When a series of restrictions come into play to catch a serial killer, a good chunk of the inhabitants of New York find their lives upended on to someone else. And Stiles? He's transplanted into a new apartment; expected to watch his roommate for signs of suspicious activity. But how is he supposed to watch his roommate <i>and</i> avoid the attentions of a serial killer? There's only so much a guy can do.</p><p>Note: Stiles and Derek don't die, so please stop asking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Umbrella (Part the First)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [definitelyahalewolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/definitelyahalewolf/gifts).



> Inspired by [this comic strip](http://agartaart.tumblr.com/post/78378791788/human-derek-is-too-shy-to-come). Art by [Martina](http://definitelyahalewolf.tumblr.com). Listen to [Erica's Playlist](http://8tracks.com/besinfection/cafe-shifter-fst).
> 
> This story is not for circulation outside of fandom. This includes Goodreads.

Cafe Shifter by [DefinitelyAHaleWolf](http://definitelyahalewolf.tumblr.com/)

 

“Yes, Scott, I have my backpack. Can I hang up now?” Dragging the edge of his keys idly against the side of his leg, a young man shuffles toward the front door of a cramped apartment. Between his head and his shoulder he has lodged his phone. A laptop, open backpack, and three textbooks are clutched precariously to his chest by the hand not occupied with the entirely necessary act of leg-scraping.

"I’m a big boy,” he continues. Pulling the front door open wide, he jams his keys into the lock. He leans lazily against the door frame as he slides everything into his backpack. “I’ll be ready to leave on my own some day without your help, and you have to let me. Maybe some time this year. Preferably today. You have to…” He sighs dramatically. “You have to let me go, Scott. It’s going to be a learning experience – for both of us – and yes, there will be mistakes. But I have to leave the nest that you so graciously allowed me to nestle in without asking me if I was really okay with something like _living in your nest_."

“ _Stiles, the last time I let you walk out of your apartment without talking you through it you forgot your umbrella and fried your computer._ ”

Stiles’ body goes stock still just as he zips his backpack closed. With as much stealth as he can muster, he sidles back into the foyer to snatch his umbrella from a coat hook. “That was one time, dude. Let it go.”

“ _It put you out 600 bucks and three term papers. One of which was a group project that_ I was part of. _I am never going to let it go._ ”

Slinging the now heavy backpack over one shoulder, like any true 90’s child who’d grown up watching bad movies, Stiles reaches up to adjust the phone he has clamped between his head and his shoulder with a grimace. His neck is getting sore. Locking his apartment, he shoves his keys in his pocket and makes his way down the hall. “Hanging up now. Yes, I know it’s raining. Yes, I have my umbrella. I have my textbooks, backpack, laptop, keys, wallet, and – obviously – my phone. I’m almost at the elevators. Can I hang up now?”

“ _Did you take your Adderall?_ ”

Stiles pauses, sighs, and turns on his heel. “Shut up.” There was no use lying to a werewolf. Sometimes he really hated that about Scott. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“ _No, but it’s nice to hear._ ”

“Good, because I hate you.”

Scott just laughs.

…

Two Adderall, an elevator, and three city blocks later, Stiles is still on his phone. Huddled under his battered red umbrella, he makes his way down the street with an animated vocabulary of elbow twitches. “Allison’s there, right?”

“ _Yes, I am,_ ” the girl in question sing-songs over the line after a brief round of shuffling. “ _I made lasagna_.”

“Heck yes. I love your lasagna.”

“ _It’s the best, isn’t it?_ ” Scott coos excitedly. He’s obviously gotten the phone back.

Stiles decides to change the subject before his friend can start talking – no, monologuing – about how Perfect and Wonderful his Beautifully Gorgeous Goddess of a Girlfriend is. Stiles clutches his umbrella tight as the wind grapples for it, dragging it forcefully to the side to expose his arm to the furious rain. Their battle wages for what seems like minutes, though it really passes in around ten seconds, before Stiles regains control and the gust subsides. “Jeez, the weather today is brutal,” he whines, eyeing the dark stain that is now his left arm.

“ _It’s not that bad,_ ” Scott comments.

“You’re only saying that because Allison has a thing for rain,” Stiles bites out bitterly. “Do you forget we’re from California? You know, blue skies? A constant balmy seventy-five degrees? The land of beaches and no weather, like, ever?”

Allison’s amused laughter is loud and clear. “ _Wimp_.”

Stiles is about to defend himself – to advocate that he is not, in fact, a wimp (he’s just easily bruised and sensitive to cold weather) – when he collides with a hard, small, very much sentient body. His balance jerks out of commission for a terrifying moment, but a well-timed flail saves him from pitching into the street. “Oh, shit, sorry!”

The woman he’s collided with is around his age, with long brown hair and a glare that speaks of either years of practice or a lifetime of apathy. She has turned on her heel now that Stiles has regained his balance, eyes boring into his skull like he is the cause of everything wrong with the world. Which, he muses to himself for a moment, he probably is. “Oh, wow, a human who apologizes.”

It’s the most condescending tone Stiles has ever heard. And considering he is – was – the unfortunate acquaintance of one Jackson Whittemore, King of All Things Douchey, this is both disappointing and impressive. Stiles snatches his phone from where it has fallen, swabbing his phone against the leg of his pants before pressing it to his ear. “Just a second, Scott,” he says quickly.

“ _Is everything okay?_ ”

With a short, “I’ll call you back,” Stiles ends the call and adjusts his umbrella, smiling nervously at the woman he’s collided with. He screws up his mouth in preparation to sass. “A simple ‘it’s okay’ would have been nice.”

“It’s not okay to just barrel into people,” she snaps. “You humans think you own everything-”

“Cora-” a woman with black hair behind her attempts to interject, hand sliding over the younger woman’s shoulder.  Stiles realizes the woman he’d run in to – Cora – is flanked by three other people.

Three unusually attractive people.

Her eyes flash a bright, piercing gold beneath the hood of her bright green rain coat. She shakes the hand off. Bearing down on the man – who was fast realizing he had either crossed some invisible line or simply run into a Shifter who was having a very bad day – her mouth snaps open in a snarl, revealing the sharp canines of a _Fuckin’ Werewolf_. “You think an apology can fix everything? Huh? Do you?”

Stiles sputters, words clogging somewhere halfway up his throat before they strategically retreat back to wherever they came from. Probably near his stomach, where his balls are setting up camp. He’s not so intimidated that he can’t criticise the dialogue in his head. Though he is suddenly proud of the rather thin brain-to-mouth filter he’d cultivated, rather reminiscent of a poorly kept fungi, since his Junior year of high school. He figures this is the only thing that keeps his mouth closed and his balls in tact.

“This is why I said she shouldn’t come to the city,” someone behind her – a tall, fair haired man – says.

“What were we supposed to do?” another member of her posse – an even taller, intimidatingly large man with dark skin – demands dryly. “Leave her in Argentina?”

Cora continues despite the commentary. Her hand snaps out and rips Stiles’ umbrella from his grip, tossing it to the ground. “You humans-” she begins, ramping up for a monologue that would no doubt reach epic proportions without interruption.

Thankfully, fate takes a hand.

Stiles doesn’t bother sticking around as a gust of wind snatches his umbrella from the ground and carries it down the block. “Wait!” he calls, racing after it, hand cupped around his eyes and squinting through the rain.

Behind him, Cora actually looks scandalized.

The older dark-haired woman chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve actually seen someone book it for an umbrella before.”

…

Five city blocks later Stiles manages to rescue his umbrella.

Naturally, this is only _after_ a truck has mowed it over. For a long second he stares at its bent spine and tries not to groan. He waits patiently for the light to turn before racing into the street and snatching it up. Taking cover under a nearby overhang, be begins to work at bending the spine back into place. Just as he manages to get the centerpiece in working order, the top suddenly flutters outward, catching him off guard. He barely manages to pull away in time for it to open above his head.

For all of three seconds he smiles.

That was when the stretchers suddenly gave, closing the vinyl around his face with a wet and suffocating, “ _Flop_!”

Stiles wails in surprise, ripping himself out from the people-eating umbrella and flinging it to the ground. This was where it sat like any other non-human-eating thing would. But he knew. He knew. Stiles wasn’t unaware any more; he was already enlightened of the thing’s dastardly plans to devour him and humanity at large.

“What was that for?” he shouts, drawing the attention of nearby pedestrians. “It’s not like _I_ did this to you!”

Or not.

The crowded street seems to come to a pause. Within seconds what feels like nearly a hundred pairs of curious eyes have turned on him. Watching. Waiting for the crazy man to make a move.

Snatching the umbrella from the street – which is ripped, missing two stretchers, has three snapped ribs, and is decidedly not useful any more – Stiles wraps it up as best he can with the velcro strap and ducks into the first restaurant he can find, arms draped protectively over his bag. He approaches the counter with a grim smile, attempting – and failing – to not to drip everywhere in the process. “Hey, can I get a latte please?” he asks, pulling his wallet from his pocket with trembling hands. It never rained in California. Not really. And it isn’t his fault he has poor circulation.

 _Wimp_ , Allison’s voice teases in his head.

He’s ducked into a small café. “Café Shifter” going by the sign hung above the cashier. It’s a pretty blonde woman. She looks completely at home in a bright orange apron and bright red lipstick, and her nametag reads “Erica.”

Erica smiles. “Nothing special; just a latte?”

The man shrugs, biting his lip and raising one hand to run it through the fuzz of his buzz cut. “What, uh, what flavors do you have?”

She points behind her with a quirk of her upper lip. It can almost be called a smirk.

Stiles winces. The menu is spaced out over three blackboards, arranged around the logo of a coffee cup with a wisp of steam in the shape of a wolf, and just… doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“To be completely honest I can’t make heads or tails of that thing. I just want something that’ll warm me up while I wait for the rain to stop. Could you, like, recommend something? What do you get?”

Bright red lips part in an amused laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Uh…” The man blinks, not expecting the question. “Stiles.”

“Well, Stiles,” she drawls, obviously amused by his name, “what I usually get is a skinny salted vanilla-caramel macchiato in a large mug with extra steamed milk: extra whip, extra topping. But…” She pauses, thinking seriously for a moment. “That’s at home. We make actual macchiatos here, which are shots. If you just want something to warm you up it might be better to go with cocoa. Does that sound good to you?”

His eyes widen. Trust a barista to have a complicated order. “Uh… sure?”

“What size?”

“Umm…” He squints at the chalkboard. But after thirty seconds he mentally declares that the entire thing is written in another language. “I honestly don’t-”

“We just call them small, medium, and large here, honey,” she tells him helpfully, easing herself on to a stool behind the counter. “No one here cares about unnecessarily confusing Italian terms. Now, size?”

Stiles stares at her oddly for a moment before glancing at the cups glued to the right side of the counter and answering. “Medium, and what’s with… Are you like… I mean, it’s cool and all, but why?”

Erica rings up his order with a smile. “Because we cater specifically to the needs of Shifters, and 90% of our sales are made online, the boss figured breaking from the mould was necessary.”

Stiles blinks.

_Café Shifter._

_Oh._

“That’ll be one dollar,” she said.

He hands over the amount without flinching. He’d expected it to be much more. “How do you stay in business?” he inquires as she steps away from the counter. “Like, Starbucks charges an arm and a leg for this stuff.” Settling into one of the chairs near the counter, he watches the woman work with a curious expression.

“We whip all our own cream and have an exclusive supplier for beans and dairy, among other things,” she tells him, grabbing a small tin of powdered cocoa from underneath the counter and practically pitching two spoonfuls in a tall cup. “You know Shifters can taste preservatives, right?”

“Yeah. More than… I mean… My best friend, Scott – he’s a Shifter and I swear to god the nicest guy ever – actually bans himself from his kitchen and does literally all his girlfriend’s housework so she’s free to cook every one of his meals from scratch. I’m pretty sure if they broke up he’d starve to death.”

Erica laughs. “That sounds like a pretty lazy guy.”

Right on cue, Stiles’ phone blares a cheery tune. Digging it out of his pocket, he plasters it to the side of his face with a wet smack and answers with a peppy, “Bob and Rainbow’s funeral parlor. You kill ‘em, we bill ‘em.”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“Uh…” Stiles pulls away from his phone, activating the GPS and laughing for a moment before he answers. “Half a mile from your place. My umbrella broke, so I’m waiting for the rain to stop.”

“ _Waiting where?_ ”

“Café Shifter. It’s a little place in Flushing.”

“ _Great. I’ll be there in a minute, okay? I’m going to look it up and grab the other umbrella._ ”

“Seriously? Thanks, dude. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“ _Later!_ ”

“Later.”  Ending the call with a grin, he takes a cautious first sip of cocoa. Unbidden, a noise bursts from deep in his throat somewhere between a moan and a whimper. “Oh god, what is this made of? Pixie dust?”

“It’s called ‘real cocoa,’ honey,” Erica drawls warmly. “Good ingredients make a world of difference.”

Taking another sip, Stiles squints at the label printed over the coffee collar as a bright red skull catches his eye.

_Caution: Contents may be hot. Contents may be toxic. Do not drink is nursing or pregnant. Do not share, trade, or dispose of into any channel that may lead to a water supply._

“Uh...” He turns, nausea building in his stomach, to look at Erica. “Is it-”

“Oh – that's just for the Shifter's coffee. You know; because we put a special blend of poisons in it.”

“Why would you poison it?” he gapes.

She shrugs. “To make it work.”

“And what if you accidentally poison a human’s coffee?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

The woman shakes her head, then points to the logo. “We have ways of knowing,” she answers, voice even.

Glancing curiously up at the sign, the man realizes rather belatedly that the store must not only cater to Shifters, but also have a staff made up entirely of _Fuckin’ Werewolves_. Stiles turns back to his cocoa, sniffing experimentally at the small opening at the top. Had she poisoned it? No – she could probably tell that he was human. And… Yeah, he wasn’t going to think about that. Taking a longer sip, the man decides he might as well enjoy it. Death by cocoa would be a good way to die.

Jingling cheerfully, the front door opens wide to admit a decently tall young Mexican man with floppy hair and a bright grin. “Stiles, let’s go,” he orders, hand bearing a peace offering of blue vinyl.

“Scotty!” Stiles greets, jumping up from his seat. He turns back to Erica as he takes the offered umbrella. He waves a cheerful goodbye as he steps out onto the street. Popping the umbrella open above his head, the man fixes his friend with a grin. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Anytime,” Scott replies brightly, grinning big. “Now let’s hurry – the potatoes are getting cold.”

…

“ _-not yet sure if these cases are connected. More on this after the break_ ,” the television blares, unusually loud in the student store-cum-coffee shop.

Stiles glances at it curiously before turning his attention on the barista. “Can I get a tall cocoa?”

“Sure. Two dollars,” she mutters, almost too quiet to hear.

Handing over the amount with a wry grin, Stiles glances lazily around the wanna-be cafe. It’s unusually crowded. A large group has clustered around the television in the corner, communing in hushed whispers as one of them turns the volume down just as a commercial for a car dealership starts.

He takes a seat near the pickup counter, pulling out his phone to fire off a text to Scott. _You’re late._

It takes all of five seconds for the man to reply, Stiles’ phone buzzing in his hand even before he could set it on the table. _Sry. Trafc backup clr 2 brdge. Cnt X street. Might miss cls. Rmbr 2 turn off ur phone 4 Satan._

Stiles rolls his eyes, but holds down the power button for his phone after a quick glance at the time. He has ten minutes before Chemistry.

“Tall cocoa,” the barista calls, pushing a small steaming cup across the pickup counter in his direction before turning back to wipe down the cappuccino machine.

Rising to his feet, Stiles snatches up a coffee collar and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. As he slides it under and around the cup the television is once more adjusted to near-blaring and the crowd of students behind him fall quiet as the news resumes. The sound of the newscaster’s voice follows him out of the store, drifting into the hallway like an echo until the doors cuts it off.

“ _Large sections of the area have been roped off for the investigation, leaving travel by car – and even foot – slow to a near crawl-_ ”

Stiles sips at his cocoa and grimaces. How had Erica done it? Had she given him some unholy new product? Is it illegal? Is it Cocoacaine? He frowns and makes his way down the hall. His newly-developed craving for what seems to be sugar-laced illicit drugs will have to wait; he has a Chemistry test to take.

…

Sluicing out of the classroom with the crowd of other students regretting their life choices, Stiles bites back a long groan before chucking what remained of his Very Much Not Cocoacaine in a trash bin outside the door. With every sip all he could think about was Erica. Erica and her perfect lipstick. Erica and her perfect hair. Erica and the hands he figured had very real claws that could kill him in three seconds flat.

Give or take the fifteen minutes it would take his brain to stop functioning.

Shoving his hand roughly into his pocket, Stiles retrieves his phone with a glare that could melt the casing. He holds down the power button for longer than is necessary, mouth thinned in a disappointed line. It takes all of four seconds for it to boot up. Then it’s purgatory.

Notifications.

Alerts.

Pings.

Verbal. Assault.

Whatever word he thinks of cannot do whatever it is justice. Over the course of six seconds a cornucopia of text messages and missed call alerts arrive in time to gang-bang his phone, not pausing to allow respite for even an instant before they screech to an abrupt, oddly disappointing standstill. Over the course of these six seconds Stiles manages to jump, lose his balance, crash into the wall, screech like a small child, and clutch the device to his chest in a desperate, futile hope that it would muffle the din that is his phone’s tortured song of agony. He waddles further from the curious crowd of miserable students, collapsing against the floor to scroll through the most recent missed calls.

Three from his dad, eight from Scott, and another two from Allison.

He calls his father first, phone ringing twice before the line clicks and connects.

“ _Took you long enough._ ”

“I was taking a test. What’s going on?”

“ _There’s been a murder two blocks away from your apartment. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. Scott said you walked home late last night-_ ”

“I’m fine, Dad. Totally, 100% fine. And not the variable definition kind this time, I swear.”

“ _It’s the fourth murder within two miles of your apartment in the last month, Stiles. I think you should move._ ”

Stiles scoffs. “What? And stiff Danny for the rent?” He glances over at one of the clocks along the hall, then starts toward his next class.

“ _I’m just saying you should consider student housing; that’s all._ ”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll look into it. And if I start feeling unsafe I’ll consider moving. Okay?”

“ _That’s all I’m getting out of you, isn’t it?_ ”

“Yup. I have History to get to. Call you tonight.”

“ _Tonight_ ,” his father echoes seriously.

They say their goodbyes, then hang up.

Pulling his phone away from his face, Stiles navigates back to the menu before setting it on silent.

…

“Please tell me you’re not busy right now, because I have to be back at school in twenty minutes and your cocoa is a _need_ okay?”

Glancing up from the counter with a grin, Erica laughs and asks, “Stiles, right?”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged. Can I get a medium cocoa please?”

“Sure,” she replies, grabbing at one of the paper cups on the counter. “We do offer cinnamon if you’d like some on top. And vanilla powder.”

Shrugging with one shoulder, Stiles mumbles a quiet, “Just normal is fine,” before taking the seat nearest the counter to watch her work.

Erica smiles, spooning cocoa and sugar into the cup before slowly beginning to mix in steamed milk and vanilla. However, halfway through the order the door jingles. Stiles’ head flies around, and he bites back a shout of surprise to see a _Fully Shifted Fuckin’ Werewolf_ dropping its paws to the ground after pushing the door open.

“Oh my god,” Erica gasps in surprise. “Shit, it’s two. I’m going to have your order in just a second, okay?”

The wolf just nods as the barista finishes off Stiles’ drink, exchanging it with the dollar in Stiles’ hand.

Suddenly, Erica is a blur. One moment she’s at the cappuccino machine, the next she’s pulling pastries from the display case with a long pair of tongs. Before Stiles can make any sense of her movements she’s placing everything on the counter in spill-proof containers and arranging them in a paper bag. This is rolled closed and placed in the Fuckin’ Werewolf’s mouth before Erica wishes them a good day. It turns away from the counter, bag crinkling as it swings delicately from the wolf’s clenched maw.

With this sound the only warning, piercing red eyes fall on Stiles; a moment that will simply pass him by if he doesn’t automatically raise his hand in greeting and squeak out a nervous, “Uh, hi.”

Which he does.

The wolf freezes, eyeing him up and down before it’s nostrils flare once, twice, three times. It looks him over again. Its eyes crinkle amusedly before it gives an approving sort of huff and making its way to the door, pawing it open. The bell jingles as it leaves: once for when it opens and twice when it closes, bouncing cheerily off the glass to echo lightly through the room.

“Who was that?” Stiles asks, suddenly tense.

“Huh?” Erica blinks as he turns toward her, eyes wide. She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s just Laura. She’s my Alpha. She’s really intimidating until you realize she has a weakness for dark chocolate, peach scones, and she practically vibrates when you scratch behind her ear.”

“Alpha?” he parrots. “You’re really a wolf Shifter?” _Fuckin’ Werewolf_ , he adds mentally.

“Yeah. Everyone who works here is.”

Stiles grins big. _I was right_ , he realizes silently. “I gotta tell Scott about this place.”

“Who’s Scott?”

“Oh – he’s the guy who picked me up last night.” In his pocket, his phone buzzes insistently. Glancing at the clock, he winces. “And now I have to go. It was nice talking to you!”

The woman gives him a small wave as he leaves, leaning against the counter and chuckling in a low, sweet tone that vaguely reminds him of Allison.

…

Stiles has just barely met up with Scott and stood up from his seat in the student lounge before he collides with a small, very firm figure and falls to the ground.

“ _You_ ,” a familiar voice snaps.

Stiles gaze shoots up to see none other than the girl from the day before, hands on her hips and scowl firm on her face. “You!” he gasps back, realizing all-too-quickly that his somewhat-decent day is spiraling none-too-kindly into a pile of _shit_.

“Mr. Umbrella,” she remarks dryly.

“Cora,” Stiles replies, notably more polite.

“Still running into everything on in your line of vision.” She drawls this like the words physically assaulted her on a dark night, spitting out the consonants and almost ignoring the vowels entirely. “Still reeking of desperate masturbation, too.”

“Whoa, hey, you do not just point that out!” Scott snarls, jumping quickly to his friend’s defense.

“Yeah!” Stiles cheers, only to glance back at his friend with a disappointed scowl. “Really, Scott?”

The woman glances between the two of them, gaze appraising, before her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth twists into a complex cross between surprise and disgust. “Huh. Maybe I was wrong about you. You still smell, though.”

“Okay, what the hell?” Stiles snaps. “First you attack me for being a stereotype, and now you attack me for _not_ being a stereotype. Pick a side and stick with it, okay?” Snatching up the last of his Cocoacaine from the table, he pulls his bag clumsily over his shoulder – which catches on his elbow twice before he can properly line it up with his chest – and levels her with a glare. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

Cora just rolls her eyes as he pushes past her, making his way down the hall and taking a seat in his twice-weekly Economics class.

Then he watches, stomach filling steadily with dread, as she storms in not ten seconds later and claims a seat in the front row.

This cannot be happening.

…

“-and I swear to god, if I ever have to talk to her ever again it’ll be too soon,” Stiles hisses at last, finishing up a truly impressive monologue about the evil that was Cora and her raised-hand-of-doom.

“Remind me again why I have to listen to you rant incessantly first thing in the morning?” Erica drones dryly, glaring at him over a large mug of coffee.

“Because you make the greatest cocoa in the world and I’ve already told Scott three times over Call of Duty. I needed a fresh audience,” he informs her earnestly, taking a pointed slurp of the Godly Cocoacaine. Which, Erica had assured him, was free trade and didn’t involve illicit drugs.

The bell on the front door jingles sweetly, and they break eye contact as she turns toward the customers to greet them warmly. Turning back to his laptop, Stiles stares blankly at the unfinished paper displayed there. He waits patiently for And just when the couple at the counter leave, in come a crowd of college students, shortly followed by a hipster in leggings and two girls holding hands. Stiles sinks back in his seat, resigning himself to doing actual work on his essay.

When the door opens again, he looks toward it out of instinct and is met with glowing.

Blue.

Eyes.

It’s the wolf. The wolf from before? Probably. Same shop. Same black fur. Same build. The bag around its neck is new.

 _Yes_ , Stiles decides. _Same wolf from before._

He’s surprised that it comes to stand by him, though he should have guessed it – she? – would. The line has curved away from the door, the trend starting with the hipster and continuing with the lesbians. Probably to keep the entrance clear. Leaning toward the wolf with a grin, Stiles offers his hand. “Hey. You must be Laura.”

Fixing him with a narrow-eyed glare, the wolf stares at him darkly until he pulls away, retracting his hand with a grimace.

“I’m Stiles,” he continues anyway, against his better judgement. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself the last time we were here.

After everyone else in line has given their orders, Erica waves the wolf forward. It pads up to her with a snuffling noise. “Thanks, Derek,” she says, reaching for the bag looped around the wolf’s neck. “Sorry to make you come all this way because of me.”

The wolf – Derek – makes a huffing sort of noise before turning tail and leaving, door jingling three times as he leaves, just as it had with Laura.

Stiles leans toward the counter as Erica returned to her work. “Wait, that wasn’t Laura?”

She blinks. “Uh… No? That was Derek.”

He falls back into his chair with a groan. “I _introduced_ myself!” he moans. “No wonder he looked at me like I was an idiot!”

“He looked at you like you’re an idiot because… Well, he looks at everyone like that,” Erica semi-shouts at him over the roar of the grinders. “Don’t let it get you down.”

Stiles laughs, then leans forward to watch as she pulls a jar of brownish powder from the bag Derek had around his neck. “What’s that?”

“Vanilla powder. I forgot it at Laura’s – she’s his sister. That’s probably why you got them confused.”

They fall silent as another few customers step through the doors, and much to Stiles’ surprise a young man with curly brown hair steps behind the counter with Erica, pulling on a smock and beginning to mix drinks with a finesse that could only come from being supernatural.

…

Later that night, while Stiles is pressing the number for his floor in his apartment building, his phone blares in his pocket. He jumps, reaching for his pants out of habit, only to realize he’d actually stored it in his backpack. Dropping it to the floor, he digs through the main pocket as the elevator doors slide shut behind him. “Hey dad,” he answers immediately, pushing the phone up against his face as he zips up his bag. “What’s up?”

“ _Hey Stiles. Any luck with the apartment search?_ ” his father asks a bit too eagerly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s been what? Five hours? No, Dad. No luck with the nonexistent apartment search. Which doesn’t exist. Because it’s only been f-”

“ _Okay, I get it. Just promise you’ll start looking soon, okay? That area is getting very dangerous very fast._ ”

“Yeah, Dad. I-” Stiles cuts off as the Elevator jerks to a stop, light above the door flashing to indicate he’s been frozen on the sixth floor. “I’m gonna call you back. Something just came up.”

“ _Be safe_ ,” his father tells him.

“I will,” he replies quietly, ending the call and pressing a thumb into the emergency call button on the button pad. “The elevator’s stopped,” he says once the device clicks twice.

“ _At the moment we can’t let anyone unauthorized access the eleventh floor._ ” The voice is feminine. Soothing.

“I live on the eleventh floor.”

“ _Name?_ ”

“Stilinski. Apartment 1125. I room with Danny Mahealani.”

There was a short pause before the elevator suddenly rumbles and continued its ascent. “ _There is a search in progress on the eleventh floor,” she tells him. “If at all possible, do not impede the progress of the investigation. No one is to get on the elevator after you leave_.”

“Why?”

“ _Have a nice day_ ,” the woman tells him instead, disconnecting the call.

Stiles frowns as the numbers illuminate one-by-one above the door.

 _Seven_.

Investigation? Like the police?

 _Eight_.

What were they searching for? Drugs?

 _Nine_.

Is this what his father had been warning him about?

 _Ten_.

Was it too late to just walk over to Scott’s and stay there for the night?

 _Eleven_.

For a moment after the elevator slows to a halt, Stiles is convinced the doors just won’t open. That he can stay in the small car until whoever is on the other side of the door can finish what they are doing so he can leave. Or not. He could go to bed, or play video games. Or just not deal with whatever was beyond the protection of the elevator walls. But as the doors slide open he realizes he had been right.

Today is going to be a really shitty day.


	2. Shift Culture

For the first few seconds after Stiles steps out of the elevator, it’s all he can do not to galk. The floor is littered with wires and strips of metal; decorated with shards of glass both big and small. Blood has been spattered across the carpet and along one wall, smeared in a wide streak leading further into the apartment complex. (He tries not to dwell on this.) Beside him, the secondary elevator has been gutted. The doors lie open, displaying the torn interiors like a well-placed painting. Further down the halls, a few of his neighbors pace nervously. His apartment manager is among them, keys jingling and head balding.

Most of his attention, however, is on the armed police officers stationed at several doors. Their guns are held at the ready. Their eyes, on him.

Behind him, the elevator doors slide shut with a drawn out hiss.

One of the officers approach him, face obscured by a scuffed helmet and a bold white SWAT across her chest. “You Stilinski?” Her voice bounces from inside the headgear, twisting into something almost terrifying to hear.

All Stiles can do is nod weakly, eyes flickering from the woman in the SWAT uniform to the other heavily armored police officers. All of them are on high alert, though one of them looks unsure as to whether he should point his gun at the floor or ceiling. He watches, somewhat alarmed, as half a dozen SWAT members file out of the only open door in the hall.

“Area clear,” one of them announces before moving to another door, motioning for the apartment manager to step forward with the keys.

“I’m going to have to escort you to your door,” the female SWAT member informs him calmly. “But you won’t be able to enter until-”

“You’ve searched the rooms, yeah,” Stiles completes somewhat invasively. “Sorry. I didn’t- I’m not undermining your authority. I’ve just had a really shitty day.”

Instead of replying with an affirmative, or any sort of recognition that he had spoken, the woman motions for him to take a seat on a nearby bench. “Wait here,” she says, falling into a relaxed stance beside it.

“Are you here to protect me?” Stiles asks cheekily. “That’s sweet. I didn’t know you cared.” He didn’t expect her to reply, and he wasn’t disappointed when none came. Taking the designated seat, he tugs out his phone and starts up his tetris app. “How long do you think I’ll be waiting?” he inquires, guiding the first square block down the page.

“Twenty minutes, at best. Your apartment will be coming up soon, but searches take time.”

“And who are we looking for?”

“I’m not at leave to disclose that information.”

Stiles glances up from his phone long enough to fix the woman with an incredulous expression before sighing and turning back to his game. “I guess I’ll just ask Dad about it later,” he mutters, momentarily fighting to get an L block to the right hand side of the screen. He makes is through three poorly-executed rounds and gets a good game going before another SWAT member approaches them and makes a motion with his hand.

“His apartment’s clear,” he says simply, saluting to the woman.

“Good work,” she tells him without bothering to salute, and Stiles realizes quickly that his guard had been a little higher up on the food chain than he had thought. She turns to him, eyes hard as she levels him with an appraising look. “Follow me.”

Stumbling to his feet, Stiles moves to follow the woman as he shoves his phone into his pocket, where it belongs. Grabbing at his keys, he makes his way to his apartment with a grimace. The other SWAT members aren’t too far away, now. Barely one door over, making quite a clatter. Unlocking his door – because what were the police these days, if not maddeningly thorough? – Stiles steps into his apartment, only to be met with twin glares of exhaustion.

These fall away not as quickly as he would like, but not as slowly as he would dread.

“You look like you’re having a long day,” Danny observes quietly.

“About as long as yours,” Stiles replies solemnly, shutting the door behind him with a drawn groan of annoyance.  “What are you guys up to?” he asks, stepping around the couch to flop beside Malia and rest his head on her shoulder. He receives a dark look for his efforts and is very shortly shoved off. He settles for cuddling the arm of the couch instead.

“Watching Teen Hulk,” Malia replies, waving her hand to the screen. Against a rainbow backdrop, a man sings about multi-colored sponges with dish soap in the “scrubby-bubbly miracle pockets.” “It’ll be back on in a second.”

Stiles nods his head, approving. “Cool. Rerun or new episode?”

“Rerun,” Danny informs him. “Don’t worry – it’s not from season three or four. We all know how you feel about those.”

“Season three’s where it starts getting good, though,” Malia argues. “How can you not like season three?”

“For the same reason I don’t like whoever the fuck Jackson plays.” Rubbing his face against the slightly rough fabric of the couch, Stiles pulls his legs up to curl into a ball. “Which happens to be the same reason I hate Jackson Whittemore. It has no substance.”

“He’s not that bad of a guy,” Danny defends, eyebrows raised. “You were on his bad side in high school.”

“His bad side is every side,” the shorter man comments dryly. “He treated girls like objects.”

“Well, yeah, that was a problem.”

“That character he plays is just the same. Like, that chick Lydia plays – she’s smarter than him but he’s always telling her what to do and refusing to take her opinion into account.”

“That’s mostly bad writing.”

“Yeah. I’d like him more if he was gay or something,” Malia complains dryly, eyes fixed on the screen as the show came back on.

“Jar,” Danny and Stiles say in unison, arms falling over the back of the couch to motion towards a fish bowl on the kitchen counter aptly labeled, “Reverse Misogyny Jar.”

Malia rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. How was that bad?”

“To be honest, I’m pretty sure that comment alone set the feminist movement back ten years.”

“Just being gay doesn’t excuse men from misogyny,” Danny points out helpfully. “Just like being a woman doesn’t mean you don’t hate women.”

“Are you saying I’m a misogynist?” Malia spits, jaw falling open in her indignation.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whoa, hey, don’t get ahead of yourself. No one said you were a misogynist.”

“Look, I know I’m new to this whole ‘feminism’ thing, but seriously – what’s the issue?” This earns her two very sharp looks. “What?”

“You’re turn to explain,” Stiles begs out quickly, rising from the couch and shaking his head. “I’m calling the balcony.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “Don’t spit on anyone this time.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” he assures him with a halfhearted wave of his hand. Maneuvering around the TV, Stiles throws the curtains and glass door aside to reveal a small patio overlooking the side of the nearest building and a very smarmy alley.

Luckily, the trash smell isn’t as strong as usual. Stiles figures either everyone is being serious about their recycling or they had just taken it out. He can’t smell the urine this far up; the general stench of New York falling away with the eleven floors beneath his feet. The smog smells a bit worse, what what could he do about that?

Settling his arms against the railing, the man ignored the creaking, screaming whine the bolts give in complaint. (They had checked those hinges a million times since they moved in. They weren’t budging.)

In the distance, horns bleated an off beat imitation of a tune. It was something Stiles had noticed right away upon moving to New York; the noise. It was an entity unto itself. Sometimes there would be moments during which the horns and bells and shouts and televisions would congregate, merging from its usual cacophony into a mass cornucopia of ear-splitting noise. Though, on very rare occasions, it would stop to _breathe_.

Most of the time, this happened at night. The horns would stall; bells abandoned and televisions muted for the commercials. It was the entire city catching its breath. Preparing for the exhale that could last anywhere between minutes to days.

This is one of those moments.

Stiles closes his eyes and listens; enjoying the silence while it lasts. A breeze blows by. It’s sweet with the scent of bread; sour with burning gasoline.

That’s when he hears it. Between the shuffling of a flock of pigeons and the whine of Malia complaining about commercials comes the grating of metal. The shatter of glass. Stiles’ head shoots up just in time to catch the sight of a hooded figure leaping from a smashed sliding balcony door onto the fire escape of the adjacent building. Stiles watches as it soars – almost gracefully – across nearly twenty feet of empty air, baggy clothes billowing around it as it sailed toward the painted collection of ladders. The figure lands as simply as it can. Its arms are tucked in, legs spread almost artfully, taking the brunt of the fall like they were trained to do just that.

And maybe they were.

“Hold your fire!” the woman from the hallway shouts as a few rounds of ammunition ricochet off the brick. “I _said_ hold your fire!”

Stiles watches in awe as the figure leaps over the edge of the fire escape, falling freely before an arm snaps out to twist with one of the lower sections of a ladder. A move that would have dislocated the arm of a human. _It’s a Shifter_ , Stiles realizes suddenly, watching in awe as the hood slips down just enough to reveal the edges of bright blond hair. But then the figure is on the ground, sprinting out of the alley and into the street with no grace or method. All the poise they’d had mere seconds before had fallen away, melting into the dead sprint they were set on.

As the SWAT members call into their radios, shouting that the suspect was on foot, Stiles retreats back into the apartment. It would be, at most, fifteen minutes before the perp was caught. There would be no escaping an operation of this size on foot. Not like that.

“I heard bullets,” Danny announces. “Did you see anything?”

Stiles shakes his head, clenching clammy hands in his sweat shirt and frowning bitterly. “Not much,” he half lies, taking a seat beside Malia just as the show comes back on. “Did I miss anything?”

“Yeah. Werewolf Dude #1 did that ‘I’m the Alpha’ thing you like so much,” Malia teases. “Just throwing this out there, but you’re really gay for a straight guy.”

“It’s a well-executed scene,” Stiles points out dryly. “Now be quiet; they’re talking.”

“Gay.”

“Excuse me?” Danny quips.

“Not an insult,” Malia snaps back. “Just calling it how it is.”

…

Stiles wakes to a myriad of honks and guitar riffs as the radio of his alarm-clock intertwines with his now wide-open window. Rolling off the bed, Stiles falls to the floor with a grunt. “You couldn’t wait half an hour to do that?” he asked, turning his attention to the woman perched on his bed.

Malia shrugs. “I’ve been here for ten minutes. If it was really a problem you would have woken sooner.” Leaning further out the window, she rests her arms against the sill and grins.

Scrambling to his feet, Stiles grabs a shirt and pants blindly from his closet and makes his way to the bathroom. “Morning, Danny,” he greets, passing the taller man in the hallway.

“She in your room?” the man asks, shimmying to the side to let him pass.

“Yup. Leaning out the window.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles turns, amused, to watch Danny step into his bedroom with a frown.

_“Boundaries, Malia!”_

_“He didn’t even wake up.”_

_“That’s the problem.”_

Stepping into the bathroom, Stiles closes the door after him with a grin. He turns to the sink, eyeing the toothbrushes in a perfect, straight line. Danny’s handiwork, no doubt. “Red, green, blue,” he sing-songed, pointing to each one in turn. “I belong to you.” Snatching up the blue tooth brush, he pulls open one of the drawers and dives in. Among tweezers, makeup brushes, and Danny’s douching supplies (there was only one drawer, okay?) lie his toothpaste, innocently pushed to the very back of the drawer. Retrieving it with a noise of triumph, Stiles set about waking up.

…

Setting off down the street, Stiles hummed a bit to himself. It’s quiet for New York, with a light breeze that doesn’t smell too much like trash or piss. No one approaches him on street corners and there are no cars that nearly careen into him whenever he attempts to cross the road. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon – what he can see of it, anyway – and the entire sky is a gentle pink.

It’s barely six in the morning when Stiles pushes open the doors of Café Shifter, stepping around a group of women with sharpened toenails and glowing yellow eyes. He holds the door open for them, offering one of them a, “Your shirt really suits your eyes,” as they pass.

They surprise him by giggling, and one blows him a kiss.

“Morning, Stiles,” Erica greets as he steps further into the store. “Your usual?”

“Obviously,” he scoffs, dropping into his usual seat closest to the counter. He glances back at the girls he had passed, eyebrows risen. “Huh. Usually the response to that is a bit more negative.”

“Honesty has a particular smell,” Erica offers cryptically, but instead of pulling out the ingredients for his usual Cocoacaine she rolls up her apron and fixes him with a smile. “Mind doing me a favor?”

“Huh?”

“Watch the shop for thirty seconds. I think the delivery girl got stuck in traffic again.”

Out the door she goes, leaving Stiles behind in the empty shop, staring after her in surprise. “Uh,” is all he can manage before she’s gone, eyes fixed on the store logo as the door swings shut and the bell rings once, twice, three times. “Sure?”

He waits in silence for a while before pulling his laptop out of his bag, propping it open on the table and plugging in his password. As he waits for it to load, he glances out the windows of the shop. The city is just beginning to come alive, with a young woman racing down the street in a three-piece suit and a man in sweats jogging in the opposite direction. The skies are unusually clear for morning, with barely a cloud in the sky, and almost no smog to be seen.

It reminds him a bit of home.

The bell rings cheerily, and Stiles glances over in time to catch the sight of a large, _Fully Shifted Fuckin’ Werewolf_ drop to its front paws. It’s the same scruffy black one as the day before. Its eyes glow a bright, almost eerie blue as it turns about the shop. Eventually it turns to Stiles, looking up at him in question.

“Uh… Erica stepped out,” he explains quietly. “She should be back soon.”

Much to his surprise, the wolf nods in understanding before padding up to the counter. There it sits, not even a foot away, stiff as a board.

 _Peach scones and ear scratchies_ , Stiles recalls. “You’re Laura’s brother, right? Derek?” he asks, curious.

Blue eyes turn on him, and the wolf nods agreement.

Eyeing the scruff of the shifter’s neck, Stiles lifts a hand from his laptop and eases it forward. “Do you mind if I…” he began, palm open and movements slow.

At first the wolf meets him with surprise, then insult. But these both seem to fall away as soon as Stiles’ hand brushes the base of his neck, smoothing over the fur there. Its entire body seems to _rustle_ at the contact. It – no, he – jerks away, then into the contact, as if unsure how to react. And when Stiles’ hand begins to rub a shiver racks his spine and his head lolls to the side.

“Wow,” Stiles gasps. “You are so _soft_. Is this a Werewolf thing? Or a Shifter thing? Or is it just because it’s magical hair? I don’t know much about magical hair, what with not being magical and all, but I’m seriously curious because it’s not really something you learn about in science class.”

Erica laughs, as Stiles glances up to find her in the doorway, clutching a small wooden box. “Making a new friend, Derek?” she asks, stepping into the store and allowing the door to close behind her, bell ringing twice as it bounces off the glass.

Derek breaks away from him without any sort of delay, huffing angrily before padding over to the counter.

“You’re going to have to wait, Grumpy Paws. Stiles was here first.”

…

Stiles is on the bus when he hears it – the voice that sounds like his father. It tells him that he needs to pick up bread. And how strange is that; the voices in your head telling you the grocery lists? In lieu of listening to the voice, however, Stiles eyes the woman opposite him with trepedition. Honestly, what was he supposed to do? The woman was mumbling about aliens and how little dogs were their transmission sources. Utter nonsense. Didn’t she know they were called “radio stations” these days? Her conspiracy theory was at least forty years out of date.

Hopping off the bus early, Stiles makes his way into the grocery store with a smile. He had actually forgotten to put bread on the shopping list. Danny was going to be so proud of him!

If he didn’t go crazy first.

Stiles was halfway to the bakery section before he noticed the stares. Old ladies, young men, little kids – everyone, really. Except for the cross-eyed guy by the croissants. For all of thirty seconds the man entertains the idea that he is so attractive that he is catching the eye of everyone, regardless of age or gender.

“ _Stiles, for the love of god, I’m not going to talk to you about this later,_ ” the voice in his head scolds him.

 _Right_ , he agrees with the voice, trying not to acknowledge that he had… well, acknowledged it. _That would be stupid. That doesn’t actually happen in real life._

“ _Dammit, Stiles!_ ” the voice that sounds suspiciously similar to his father continues angrily. “ _Pick up your damn phone!_ ”

Stiles jumps at this, scrambling for his pocket to retrieve his phone. He nearly drops his basket, but after a brief struggle to get into his _own pants_ he holds it aloft with a noise of triumph.

It’s on.

“ _That’s it, I’m hanging-_ ”

“Dad! Hey! I totally butt-dialed you. That is a thing. A thing that happened. Years of science and the introduction of touch-screen technology and our rear ends can still type better than our hands. What do you know?”

“ _At least store that thing the other way._ ”

“Hey, then I would have forgotten about the bread,” Stiles tells him sweetly, holding the basket aloft as if his father could see. “See? It came in handy.”

“ _I don’t care if it came in handy. This is the third time this month you have butt-dialed me. Get that phone a case._ ”

“Will do, Daddy-o!”

“ _And move out of your apartment. I don’t care if you crash on Scott’s couch, just get out of that neighborhood._ ”

“Anything else? Because I’m pretty sure I can fit in curing cancer before the lunch rush.”

“ _I love you, Stiles_.”

Stiles grins. “I love you too, Dad. Now, anything else I’ve forgotten?”

The line clicks twice, and the call ends.

…

“I’m telling you – you’ve got to try this place. I swear they’re peddling drugs,” Stiles advocates, waving his free hand ‘convincingly’ as he takes another sip of his Cocoacaine, housed safely in his shiny new Cafe Shifter thermos, the logo printed proudly on the side. “And I mean that in an entirely legal, totally narcotic-free way.”

“I’m sure it’s fantastic, Stiles, but really? Drugs?” Scott asks around a laugh, adjusting his backpack higher up on his shoulder. “Like, I get it, it’s good. But you said the same thing about the popcorn at that hardware store back home.”

Skipping a bit, Stiles made his way further into the center of the hall as his elbow cut it a bit too close to a trash can. “Come on, we both know I was biased. The checkout girl was totally cute and it was free popcorn.”

“The checkout girl, who you dated for two weeks.”

“Dude, I’m telling you, if we hadn’t moved here we would be, like, _married_ by now.”

“She was Asexual,” Scott pointed out, glancing up at the classroom numbers as they passed.

Stiles shrugged. “So?”

“So, you aren’t equipped to date someone like her.”

“I would have learned, okay? She was so worth it.”

Rounding the corner, the two men draw to a halt as they nearly collide with–

“Goddammit, Cora,” Stiles whines, guarding his shiny new thermos. “I swear to god you’re stalking me.”

“You wish you were so lucky,” the woman drawls sarcastically. Turning to Scott, she fixes him with a grin. “So. Word has it you’re an Alpha. Where’s your pack?”

Scott shrugs. “Here?”

She rolls her eyes. “Right. If that were true…” The woman pauses, then turns to look at Stiles carefully. “Your pack is full of humans.”

“Yeah.”

“Not a question,” she tells him, expression morphing into something resembling concern. The look is gone before either of the men can make heads or tails of it, and the woman tosses her hair with a bored humph. “Be careful around downtown.”

As she brushes passed them, Scott turns with her even as Stiles begins to walk on. “Why?”

Without turning, the woman continues down the hall. “It’s dangerous there without a pack right now. We Werewolves need to keep together.”

“I… yeah. Sure.”

Stiles tracks back to his friend, scoffing. “What was that about?”

Scott stares after the girl, expression open and mouth slack. “I have no clue.”

…

“The smell of these washing machines is becoming something I’d like to forget,” Malia whines as she dumps her entire basket into one load.

Stiles looks up from sorting his whites to throw his hands onto hers just as she’s loading the quarters. “No, no, no,” he tells her frantically. “What have I told you about overloading these machines?”

She frowned. “That they’re temperamental?”

“Yes. And that’s how you lose _socks_ , Malia. _Socks_.”

As Stiles dives into the machine, the woman steps away and makes a face. “I don’t get it. Why is everyone so protective of their socks?”

“Maybe you’ll understand some day, Malia,” he grunts, belly flat against the side of the machine as he reached into its bowels to retrieve a lacy undergarment he’d rather never associate with Malia. Ever. “When your feet are sweaty and there’s a hole in the toe of your sock, you’ll understand why so many people fight to… keep them… safe.” As he retrieves a number of socks from the bottom of the machine, he winces to find his fingers falling through the holes.

The woman scoffs. “Still don’t see the problem.”

“It’s a matter of pride, more than anything,” a voice calls from behind them, and the two turn to see an older man. His white hair is neatly groomed, and his skin seems almost fair next to the off-pink shade (salmon?) the walls of the laundromat had been painted (subjected to.) “You know where you stand with a good pair of socks.”

“Sure,” Stiles agrees, tossing the last of Malia’s lights in a separate washer. He checks them over quickly, and is pleased to find neither washer is overburdened despite the sheer volume of the girl’s laundry. “But mostly it’s the blisters.”

“If you want to talk blisters, you should have seen my feet during the war.”

Stiles turns his eyes away from the laundry as he loads the quarters and detergent, eyeing the man oddly. “War? Like Korea?”

“Think more 1943. I did a tour in Japan and a tour in the mud of Germany. Let me tell you; you learn to appreciate the genius of socks when your feet go numb for six days.”

A shiver raced up the younger man’s spine as he looked over at the old soldier loading his laundry. He didn’t seem like someone who had been through a war, but there was no real requirement list for people to look a certain way after something like that. Mostly, he just looked like an unassuming old guy.

Very old guy.

Very weird old guy.

…

It’s only later that he mentions it, and Malia nods along with his observation.

“Yeah, weird,” she agrees, juggling her freshly folded clothes with an indifferent expression. “Kind of reeked of death.”

“Death? Like he’s dying?”

“Sorta. Outside he smelled like blood, but inside it was more like chemo.”

…

The next morning Stiles sips at his cocoa like a man possessed, sucking down what sugarry nutrients he could in as short a time possible.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just get a large,” Erica tells him over the counter. “Just take it with you to this quiz of yours. You don’t have to forcefully devour the innards of a medium just so you can order another medium. Just get the freakin’ large.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Stiles argues quaintly. “I’m not ordering a large.”

“Just get a fucking large.”

“Ah, ah, ah – Watch your language. You’re at work.”

From the front of the shop came the jingling of the bell, and when they both looked toward it they find a wolf dropping to its forepaws with a grunt.

“Hey!” Erica greets it warmly. “Your usual?”

The wolf nods, then takes a seat beside the counter to wait as the barista jumps into motion.

Leaning forward in his seat, Stiles offers a hand to the wolf with a grin. “You must be Laura,” he greets her warmly. “I’m Stiles.”

Red eyes turn on him and he is silently stared down as Erica leans over the counter with a bag. It’s a bit higher quality than before, with a proper cord handle and the shop’s logo printed on the side.

“Thanks for your business,” Erica tells her almost sarcastically as she turns and leaves the store, tail swishing through the air before the door slaps closed behind her.

Hand still outstretched, Stiles sighs. “Rejected.”

“Oh, don’t mind her,” the barista tells him sweetly. “She’s just shy.”

“Shy? Really? Isn’t she an Alpha?”

There’s a clatter of cups, and for a long moment Erica just looks and Stiles. Then she lets out a long, tired sigh. “You know, Stiles, there isn’t some set rulebook outlining how you have to be in order to be an Alpha.”

“Well, yeah, I just figured-”

“Don’t figure,” she interjects. “Never assume anyone should be any way because of a position they have, okay?”

“Okay, okay!” Throwing his hands up, the man backs away unconsciously, chair scraping across the floor and creaking ominously. Adjusting his legs to a more comfortable position, he shrugs and sips at his cocoa. “Is that why she’s shifted so often? She’s shy? Or is she and her brother Derek just really, really ugly?”

Erica hums. "I love how that's your first thought…” she mutters, grabbing up a cloth and beginning to wipe down the cappuccino machine. “They're about average, I guess."

"Average? Like, what kind of average? Like me average or you average? Because, no offence, but if you're labeling yourself as average then almost everyone else is woefully inadequate."

The woman smiles at this, glancing over at him before stepping away from the machine, reaching into her back pocket. "I want to show you something." She pulls out a wallet, unfolding it to reveal a small, thumbnail photo of a girl with ragged hair and acne.

Stiles eyebrows rose. "Who's this?” he asks. “A relative?"

"It's me eight months ago, before the bite."

"That’s..." He trails off, glancing up at her flawless complexion and carefully curled locks. “... quite the transformation.”

"I had Gran Mall seizures, and wasn't able to function. One day I fell off a rock wall at school; broke a few bones doing it. Laura showed up at the hospital later that week. She was looking for pack, and figured she'd give it to someone who would appreciate it more than anyone else. Someone who would never regret the bite. Someone who actually needed it."

Stiles waves at her with his hands, as if the illustrate. "So all this is the bite?"

Erica laughs. "'This' is makeup, confidence, and clothing choice. I'm actually very average without it. It's how you carry yourself that makes you attractive. How you walk, talk, and present yourself. Who are you more likely to be attracted to – an attractive hobo with a hunch and a baggy suit or an average-looking, confident hobo who stands tall and wears well-fitting jeans and a t-shirt?"

"Why do they have to be hobos?"

"Because it's easier to make the comparison objectively without money in the picture."

Stiles can’t help but grin at this. "That a good point."

Erica flips her hair. "My points are always good."

They share a laugh, their voices bouncing around the empty shop.

“So what was the point of all that?” he asks. “The whole backstory thing?”

“Laura wasn’t looking for someone to dominate when she added me to the pack,” Erica tells him sweetly. “She was looking for someone who needed her.”

Stiles blinks. “That… sounds like something you shouldn’t be telling some guy in a coffee shop.”

“And if you tell anyone I’ll kill you,” Erica tells him cheerfully, stowing her wallet back in her pocket and turning her attention to the cappuccino machine.

“You’re… not kidding, are you?”

The woman hummed, flipping the rag clean-side down and working on a new stretch of machine with an upbeat tune on her lips.


	3. In the Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Martina. <3

“Two fucking weeks!” Stiles shouts in ecstasy. “I am free from Cora for two fucking weeks!”

Glancing up from a puzzle they have spread out over what little of Scott’s coffee table wasn’t taken up by the Xbox and television. Allison and Scott eye the boy warily. “How did you get in here?” they ask in unison as Scott’s neighbors pound angrily on the wall.

“Honestly, Allison, you live in New York. Learn to use a deadbolt,” the younger man chides, waving his finger back and forth tauntingly. “I’m kidding – Scott forgot his key in Econ on Friday.” Tossing the article in question onto the table, which dinged lightly before Scott snatched it up, Stiles leans against the edge of the couch with a grin. “So. Drinks? We should celebrate. Two weeks without deadlines or study groups breathing down our necks. And, for once, we’re all twenty-one.” He pauses, then motions to Allison. “Or older,” he adds, only to slap himself on the chest. “Or will be.”

“Stiles, if you want us to go out for drinks with you on your birthday all you have to do is ask,” Allison tells him mock sweetly, arranging all the blue sections of the puzzle into one pile.

“Yes!” the man cheers, throwing his hands up in victory. “We are going to get _so_ smashed-”

“On Friday,” Scott reminds him, prodding at the green pile in his possession. “Which is when you turn twenty-one.”

“Yes. On _Friday_ ,” Stiles agrees, hand shooting out to point at the older man. “On _Friday_ we are getting so smashed.”

“Sure you’re not already smashed?” Allison teased, nudging two blue pieces together before making a face and tugging them apart again.

Blowing a loud, messy raspberry, the younger man shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and makes a face. “Haha. Very funny. Now, alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. You guys in? This is me asking.”

“I’m in,” Scott says. “As long as I don’t have to be the designated walker.”

“I’ll be the designated walker,” Allison volunteers. “You boys have a good time.”

“Cool.” Stiles preens, then makes his way to the door. “I’m gonna jet, then. See you on Friday!”

Allison frowns. “You came all the way here to tell us that?”

“And return your key,” Stiles points out, waving his hand vaguely towards the object in question. “Although I’ll admit, Shifter wasn’t open yet. Otherwise I was just going to call you.”

Scott scoffed. “It’s six in the morning. Why would they be open?”

“Says the guy who works on a puzzle with his girlfriend at six every Saturday morning,” Stiles drawls in reply, leaning half out of the front door.

…

The walk back to Café Shifter is quiet, and oddly dry. Stiles is so used to an almost constant drizzle that he hasn’t gone without a hood in weeks. So when he steps into the small shop he’s so busy fighting with his glorified zip-up sweatshirt that he doesn’t notice the warm length of body in front of him until they collide. He stumbles back, muttering a small, “Sorry,” as he flails for balance, gaze flying up to meet the stranger’s.

Green eyes flecked with sunlight are the last thing he expects.

The man is maybe an inch taller than him, but holds himself upright with something resembling confidence. His eyes graze across the features of Stiles’ face, taking him it. Measuring him. His jaw is strong, nose chiseled, stubble expertly groomed. It had never occurred to the student that someone could actually look like this. That people really wear leather jackets and tight jeans with nice, professional shoes and a scowl.

So when the man steps out of the shop, it doesn’t occur to him to do anything aside from gawk and think to himself, _That man was a Shifter, wasn’t he?_ with a resounding feeling of awe.

“You okay?” It isn’t Erica at the counter, but a young man with curly blond hair. His name tag reads “Isaac.” Stiles vaguely remembers seeing him in the background a few times when Erica was busy, lifting things.

Or the foreground.

Maybe the foreground, too.

Stiles nods, biting his lip. “Is he a regular?”

“Hale?” He scoffs, then nods politely. “Yeah, he’s a regular.”

“Oh…” Glancing back around, Stiles watches the man through the windows, stride just a bit too quick to just be confidence. He bites his lip, fighting against the bubble of something in his chest. It felt almost like familiarity. Like he knew this guy from somewhere. Turning back to the barista, Stiles smiles weakly. “Hey, Isaac. Hale’s a common enough name, right?”

The barista shrugs. “Sure. I guess.”

“Cool. So, uh… Do you make cocoa, or is that just an Erica thing.”

Grabbing up a cloth, Isaac slaps it lightly against the counter before beginning to wipe it down. “We make it a bit different. If you want hers, specifically, she’s going to be here in about twenty minutes.”

“I can wait,” Stiles volunteers, settling into his usual seat beside the counter. It feels a bit odd without his laptop, but he can handle a few minutes without it.

“Well, could you pick a table a bit further out than that?” Isaac tells him rather bluntly. And for some strange, inexplicable reason, Stiles feels a sudden, burning urge to punch him in the face. “We’re about to have our first morning rush.”

“First morning-” is all Stiles manages before the front door opens with the familiar jingle of bells. He turns to see a tall woman, suit crisp and freshly pressed, approaching the counter with a thin smile.

“Five macchiatos, four espressos, two of which need to be double-shot, and three large black coffees with two fingers of soy,” she tells him, smoothing back an already perfect lock of hair. “Each.”

Isaac does a small salute. “I’m on it, Helen,” he tells her, all professional politeness and faux sweetness, booting up the cappuccino machine with a sarcastic grin.

Stiles can’t imagine how much he must hate his job.

He watches the Shifter race from machine to machine, hands blurring into something he… definitely isn’t physically up to watching at six in the morning. Pinching his nose between his fingers, he gets up and takes a seat further away from the counter as a crowd of men step through the doors and make an orderly line behind the woman, Helen. Leaning back in his chair, Stiles closes his eyes and regrets not getting Isaac to make his cocoa as the line begins to wind around the block.

…

A round of cheers makes its way through the shop, and Stiles startles awake just in time to see Erica stride in the front doors of the store, waving to the clientele like a movie star. She ties on her apron, flipping up the counter and stepping behind it before taking the second order in line. Stiles is surprised to find Helen long gone, as well as the crowd of men who were behind her, and the hipsters behind them. Digging out his phone, he finds only about five minutes have passed. Had Isaac really managed to work his way through that much of the line so quickly?

Unknown to Stiles, a black shape wound its way through the shop almost like a snake, swerving between chairs and under tables until it could rest its muzzle in the man’s lap.

Stiles jumps, phone making a desperate dive for the floor as he flails madly away from the sudden pressure. He manages to catch his phone before it falls from the table. But there, right in his lap, are a pair of bright blue eyes. “Derek,” he greets uneasily. “I, uh… Hi?”

In his lap, Derek huffs judgmentally, then pulls away to nudge his snout against the man’s leg. He makes another noise and nearly nudges him off the chair entirely.

“Do you… want me to pet you?” Stiles asks, clinging desperately to the back of his chair.

Another snuffle, and Derek shoves his head into the man’s side, nosing up towards his armpit.

“Sure. Yeah. This isn’t weird at all,” the man finds himself mumbling. His hands fall to the wolf’s scruff, massaging the skin through the mess of fur. “I wonder how long the line will last,” he mutters, eyeing the procession. “I mean, they’re working through it pretty quickly.”

“Pretty quickly” is an understatement. Stiles can’t imagine how Erica and Isaac are doing it, aside from taking multiple orders simultaneously. One moment they’re serving the first guy in line, the next they’re accepting a little girl’s dollar bill. The two baristas are mostly a blur of movement. And it seems the clientele can keep up with the pace, having payment and orders at the ready. Entire trays of small paper shot-cups with tiny plastic lids are placed in front of customers and paid for, just as single mugs of steaming product are served up to the quickly filling clientele in seats. Before Stiles knows it an entirely new set of customers are at the front of the line, and it’s hard to keep up with just who is in the shop.

“Scott can’t do this,” Stiles whispers to himself, watching the exchanges with open awe.

Nudging a bit more at his arm, Derek nips lightly at his jacket.

The man makes a noise of surprise, attempting to yank his arm away. But it’s held fast in the wolf’s teeth. “Demanding little fucker, aren’t you?” Burying his hands back in its scruff, Stiles rolls his eyes when the Shifter makes a noise in the back of its throat. “I swear, if you weren’t so cute I wouldn’t let you get away with this.”

A rumbling growl is his reply.

“Oh, don’t like being called cute? Then I won’t do this,” he quips, snatching his hands away. They’re plunging deep in the pockets of his hoodie, fingers gravitating toward the small balls of lint that are ever present, born in the Depths of Cotton. “See what bad manners get us? No scratchies for you.”

If a wolf’s maw is capable of looking indignant, Derek manages it.

“Don’t give me that look. You can’t just bully me and not take the consequences.”

Derek pulls away, looking impassive for all the world, back ramrod straight (for a dog) as he sits beside Stiles’ chair like he has something to guard.

The man laughs as quietly as he can, covering his mouth with one hand as he giggles. “You’re five,” Stiles accuses him around his fingers. “You’re five years old, and nothing will convince me otherwise.”

The wolf huffs in reply, but makes no other move.

Slowly, Stiles reaches forward and lightly scratches behind Derek’s ears. When the Shifter nuzzles back into him, the man feels a slight tugging at his face. The unmistakable signs of a smile turning his lips upward at the corners and dragging them toward his eyes. “Guess I found something to pass the time until Erica’s free.”

…

Half an hour.

It takes Erica and Isaac half an hour to work through a monster line that Stiles can only assume wraps around the entire block like a handicapped tapeworm that can’t seem to find its way to the intestines and instead is wrapped miserably around a kidney. Stiles is only vaguely aware of the Shifters’ work as it happens, finger’s buried knuckle-deep in the plush fur of, well, Derek. The man is having issues thinking of him as a person, which he knows is problematic on some level. But it’s hard to associate a human with… Well, a dog that wants scratchies. Lots and lots of scratchies.

 _Maybe he has Down’s-Syndrome_ , Stiles ponders at one point. _Or he’s five. He could totally be five._

So when he glances up to find the line, well… It’s not there any more. And he’s more than a bit surprised.

“So, are you here just to flirt with Derek, or did you actually hope to achieve something with this visit?” Erica drawls, approaching Stiles with a grin and the intimidating click of sky high heels.

And wow, did she do all that in stilettos?

Stiles tears his gaze away from her intimidating footwear to meet her eyes with a shaky grin. “It’s Spring Break at school right now. Two weeks off of classes.”

She scoffs, glances at the bar, then turns back at him as she tucks a lock of hair behind one ear. “Yeah. Whatever. What does this have to do with me?”

Pursing his lips, Stiles flicks his tongue out to smooth over the chapped skin. He shrugs noncommittally. It’s best, he decides, not to let her in on how much she reminded him of High School in two seconds. He feels small and insignificant; like she could ruin his life with a single word if she so pleased. It’s difficult to associate her with the photo she had in her wallet; of pimples and frizzy hair and misery plain in her eyes. “I plan on going back home to visit my dad for half of that, when I’m not studying.”

“You mean drinking,” she corrects, not fooled for a second.

A snort forces its way through before Stiles can stop it, and his entire body reacts to the comment – shrinking in at the shoulders and snapping straight along his back – before he straightens and smiles. At his feet, Derek manages not to whine at the loss. “Yes, and a little drinking,” he admits.

“A little?”

“Okay. A lot. Happy?”

Erica smiles, satisfied, then turns to Derek with a dry expression. “Laura texted. You need to get home.”

Stiles glances curiously down at the Shifter at his feet, peering curiously at the Shifter by his converse. Derek’s lips seem to snap back. But instead of growling, no sound comes out.  He rises to his feet before long. Then he’s walking through the empty shop, maneuvering around the chairs until he reaches the door and rising up on his haunches to push it open. The bell rings three times as he leaves; once as it opens, twice as it closes.

“He’s adorable,” Stiles comments lightly. “What is he? Twelve?”

The woman rolls her eyes at this. “Did that look like a twelve-year-old wolf to you?”

“I dunno. What do twelve-year-old wolves look like?”

“Not like Derek. That’s for sure.” Stepping back behind the counter, Erica redoes the tie of her apron. “So, what’ll it be today?”

Stiles laughs. “Do you really have to ask?”

…

Striding uncomfortably out of Econ – like every other student that had to sit through Finstock’s teaching methods – Stiles glances down at his phone to find a missed call.

_“Stiles, for the love of god, get a different phone case.  You’ve called me three times today and I now know more similes about the Dow Jones than I ever wanted to.”_

…

The following Friday, the front door of Café Shifter has a smear of what Stiles can only assume is mustard marring the “R.”

At least, he hopes it’s mustard.

Grabbing the handle – but only after examining it closely – Stiles stepped through the door and found himself nearly colliding with yet another unusually attractive person in a leather jacket. (They were just coming out of the woodwork, now. It’s like an infestation. An infestation of hot people in pig skin.)But in place of a masterfully sculpted stubble-beard and sunlight shining through their eyes, this individual has long luxurious hair and eyes sharp enough to kill a man. Or woman. Or, you know, everyone else in between.

And they’re looking at Stiles.

The woman – and it’s a woman, definitely a woman – opens her mouth, and it hangs open for a long second as if she’s in shock, before she says rather suddenly, “Mr. Umbrella.”

 _Oh god_ , Stiles thinks. _It’s a conspiracy._ “Uh… hi?” he manages. “Do I know you?”

“I’m the, uh… the sister of…  I’m Cora. I mean… I just – sister. Cora is my sister.”

The man stands firmly in place, utterly perplexed by the increasingly awkward sounds coming out of this incredibly beautiful person. It takes him a moment to acknowledge that she had spoken, and then to absorb it like a very dry amoeba on the brink of death. To realize that the woman twisting the ends of her jacket nervously between her fingers is related to the mouthy, abrasive mess that is Cora Hale. “Nice to meet you, then… sister of Cora.” He stares at her awkwardly for another silent second before adding, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“Last week,” the woman spits desperately. “I, uh – here. Last week. You introduced yourself. To me. There.” Her hand flies out, finger pointing shakily to the chair nearest the counter. She allows it to hover for a moment, practically vibrating with nerves, before shoving it so roughly into her pocket that the leather of her jacket creaked in protest.

Stiles blinks. “Laura?” he asks, not quite connecting the woman before him with the calm, intimidating Shifter that had stared him down the week before.

Laura’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. And just as she seems to be ready to say something Erica steps up to her side and nudges her elbow with a small paper bag. Snatching it up without so much as a “thank you,” the woman sprints around Stiles and down the street without prelude.

The student snorts, watching her go. “What’s wrong with her?”

Not bothering to give warning, Erica’s hand snaps forward to smack across the back of the boy’s head.

“Hey-”

“It’s like I never told you she’s shy. Jesus Christ.”

“Wha- she’s an Alpha.”

“She’s delicate is what she is, just like everyone else. Like a flower. Probably something small and cute, like a daisy. Or a morning glory.” Her eyes turn towards where the woman had fled, long-since having turned a corner and was now out of sight. “Definitely a morning glory.”

Stiles snickers. “Why? Does she stick to you when you smell her?”

Looking him right in the eye, Erica warmly smiles as she says, “No. You have to get close before you know what you’re missing.”

…

Stiles has never (legally) been to a club before, so when he finally arrives with Scott and Allison he whips his ID out for the bouncer and says rather grandly, “It’s my twenty-first birthday. Think I could skip the line?”

“Back of the line,” she grumbles in reply.

The man realizes very suddenly that the woman, while rather attractive, could probably level him with a single punch and decides to politely ease away from the red ropes and make his way to the back of the queue. “No go,” he tells Allison and Scott dejectedly. “Guess we’ll just have to wait to be let in.”

Allison laughs. “Come on, don’t look so sad. It’s, what, a ten minute wait?” Her head snaps to the side as she surveys the other people in line, noting with a grin as they all moved forward to take up the spots in front of them as three people are allowed in. “See? We’re moving already.”

“Moving does not necessarily mean progress,” Stiles points out as three rather attractive women approach the second bouncer; a tall, intimidating man.

Much to his surprise, the triad come away from the conversation looking rather miffed before striding to take up the spots behind them in the line.

Scott nods appreciatively. “Those are some professional bouncers.”

“Well yeah,” Allison agrees with a snort. “It’s their job. Therefore they’re professionals.”

Stiles wheezes a laugh before moving forward with the line. “So, apparently this place plays decent music. And by ‘decent’ I mean nothing from the top forty.”

His companions roll their eyes, sharing a look of exasperation behind the pale man’s back as a small cluster of people exit the club. Within seconds they were displaying their IDs for the bouncers and being ushered into the club. Strobes were in full force, flashing almost viciously as they step through the threshold, pay their entrance fee, and immediately start toward the bar. Lines of lasers comb through the crowd and across the dance floor, and Stiles makes the mistake of glancing at Scott. He gets an eyeful of laser and shouts.

The bartender is on Scott in an instant, rushing to push a pair of curved sunglasses into Scott’s hands. “Put them on,” she yells over the pounding beat of the bass.

“What are these for?” the Mexican shouts back, confused.

“First time here?”

“Yeah.”

The bartender shakes her head sadly, refusing to meet his eyes. “All Shifters with tapetum lucidum are required to wear sunglasses. Club policy.”

Glancing curiously over at Stiles, Scott frowns as the man turns away. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“It’s your shiny-eye thing, dude,” the paler man tells him. “Put on the sunglasses.”

Frowning, Scott does as he’s told.

Taking a seat at the bar, Stiles slaps down a few bills and orders, “Two shots of whisky, please. One for me and one for my shiny friend.” Beside him Allison breaks into hysterics while Scott gives him a look.

“Shiny?” the older man mouths as the bartender serves their drinks.

Stiles peers at the bartender’s badge as she pours a modest amount of whisky into two shot glasses. “Kiyomi,” he manages to read as her fingers close around a small bottle under the counter. Kiyomi unscrewed the stopper at the top, slowly sliding out an eyedropper. She put two drops of a clear, syrupy liquid in one of the shots, and the alcohol seemed to mist over. A film burst into a cloud, whispering around the glass like a trail of smoke before it distills and settles. This glass is pushed towards Scott.

They burn through a few shots, Allison ordering herself a soda, before they hop on to the dance floor. Stiles’ stomach is pleasantly warm, and he finds himself being dragged to the center of the dance floor. He can feel the bass in his chest and legs and arms; everywhere but his head. It feels strange. Floaty. Like nothing could bring him down.

Turning around was all it took for him to fall down.

There, dancing in a circle of rather attractive men wearing the club’s special shades, Cora grinds against a particularly tall man before turning her attentions to another, then another. She was obviously drunk. Her arms are slow, even by human standards, and her foot catches against the floor as he watches. The woman falls into one of her partners, and they drag her up to mouth at her neck.

Their eyes meet.

Stiles turns away, searching out Scott and Allison in the crowd. Scott suggests they have more shots, but suddenly Stiles isn’t feeling it.

Cupping his hand around his friend’s ear, he lightly calls, “I’m not feeling the booze today. I think I’ll stop here.”

Scott stares at him, confused, glancing around the club as if to make sure where they are. “I thought you wanted to get wasted.”

“Not really feeling the waste today,” the human replies, stepping a bit closer as the crowd suddenly surges around them as the song hits a crescendo. “I think I’m just going to dance. Go ahead and get drunk if you want.”

“If you say so,” Scott says, shrugging.

Stiles dives into the crowd, attempting to ignore the sudden weight in his stomach. It seems to resonate up his lungs and into his throat,

It’s nearly three hours later when they regroup by the bar, turn their cell phones back on, and decide to leave.

Allison fixes Stiles with a confused expression as they step from the club, Scott’s arm draped over her shoulder as the Shifter stumbles drunkenly beside her. “You’re sober,” she notes quietly. “Why are you sober?”

“I just don’t feel like getting drunk,” he explains simply, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Let’s just go home, okay? I feel more like buying some vodka and drowning in the comfort of my own apartment.”

They are nearly two blocks away when a hand lands on Allison’s shoulder, wheeling her and Scott around, and they are suddenly confronted by the female bouncer from before.

“Can I help you?” Allison asks, surprised.

“Your boyfriend needs to return the shades he borrowed,” she informs them seriously. “Club policy.”

“Oh,” the woman replies, surprised. Reaching carefully across to her boyfriend, she plucked the article from his face and hands it over. “Sorry about that.”

Somewhere nearby, Stiles hears someone retch.

“Just don’t let it happen again,” the bouncer tells them, then retreats back to the club.

Stiles’ eyes are scanning the streets, glancing from the sidewalk to the cars, and finally into a nearby alley, where a familiar figure is heaving onto a pile of trash, hand braced against the wall.

“You okay, Stiles?” Allison asks, garnering his attention.

The boy’s head flies around. “Yeah,” he says, trying to ignore the particularly sharp sense of panic that shot through him at the woman’s voice. “Yeah, fine. Just distracted. Hey, do you mind going ahead without me? I have something to take care of.”

“I… guess?” she replied quietly, eyes narrowed curiously. “As long as you’re fine getting home on your own.”

“Pfft. I’m always fine. Better than fine. I’m fantastic.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “If you say so.” Readjusting her boyfriend’s arm over her shoulder, she waves goodbye to Stiles before tromping down the street.

Stiles watches them briefly before stepping into the alley. He approaches the figure with apprehension mixed with disgust. “Hey,” he murmurs as sweetly as he can manage. “You okay?”

Heaving desperately into the alley, Cora’s fingers curled into claws and dug menacingly into the brick wall before her. Red dust cascades down to the ground in a steady stream. Spitting the rest of the vomit to the ground, the woman moans weakly and tells him darkly, “Fuck off Stilinski,” just as she fell back onto her ass in the filthy alley, shivering and gasping.

“Okay, yeah, you need to get home,” the man deadpanned, eyeing her shaking hands warily. “Is there anyone you can call?”

Cora scoffs weakly. “No.”

“Really?”Stiles asks. “Not even your sister?”

“Sister?”

“Laura.”

“How the hell do you know my sister?” Cora slurs acidly. Then, without warning, the line of her entire body seems to go limp. Gravity grips her cruelly about the shoulders. Pitching forward, the woman remains utterly silent as the side of her face and a good portion of her hair smack wetly in a shiny puddle of vomit.

Eyeing the steady motion of the girl’s shoulders as she inhales and exhales with raspy lungs, Stiles tuts. “Someone can’t hold their alcohol,” he teases, stepping closer to reach into her pocket, retrieving her phone. It’s an old flip-phone, barely functional enough to get service. Even in the middle of New York she only has two bars. He presses a series of buttons, attempting to find the contacts list, which takes much longer than it logically should because it’s all in what he can only assume is Spanish. But when he finally happens upon something that might be the list in question he finds his eyebrows rising steadily up his face.

There are only two contacts.

The second is “Laura.”

The first is “Hermano Cara Pene.”

While Stiles doesn’t claim to know any other languages, he’s pretty sure that’s an insult.

Above them, the sky gives an ominous rumble as a streak of light passes through the clouds.  The man glances up at it briefly, groaning. “You’re kidding. Do you remember the forecast saying anything about rain?” he asks, turning to the woman passed out at his side.

He gapes.

Angling the face of the phone so that it could better illuminate the woman, Stiles tries not to panic at the color of the puddle she has passed out in. There is no clear alcoholic waste or purplish tinge of wine. There is no rice or sandwiches; only a black, thick ooze that clings to her face and hair like thick curds of cottage cheese. He taps furiously at the screen with his thumb, reaching forward with his free hand to pull the girl out of the puddle before panicking and tearing off his flannel to wipe her face clean.

It rings twice before a deep, soothing voice thick with sleep yawns, “ _Cora? You never call_.”

“Not Cora,” the man corrects grimly. “Stiles. Something’s wrong with her, okay? I don’t pretend to know much about werewolf physiology so I’m not gonna lie that I have no idea what’s going on. But your sister is passed out in a puddle of her own puke right now and it’s black and for humans that is no bueno, okay?”

There’s some whispers, a bit of shuffling, and then a man with a light tenor is hissing through the line. “ _Where?_ ”

“The Well,” Stiles answers succinctly just as the first drops of rain fall to the ground. Above him, thunder rumbles. “In downtown.” Wiping a bit more puke from Cora’s face, he jumps lightly as a drop of rain falls neatly through the neck of his shirt.

Slumping forward onto him, smearing a somewhat fresh glob of vomit down the length of his throat, Cora moans miserably.

“Oh god that’s gross,” he whines.

“ _Find cover_ ,” the voice continues before the line goes dead and Stiles is left standing there in the steadily pouring rain with a young woman passed out on his chest and a phone stuck in Spanish in his hand.

“Happy birthday to me,” he mutters quietly as Cora spits up on one of the cleaner portions of his shirt.

At the far end of the alley, a figure obscured by shadows stands idly, watching them closely. It seems to weigh the situation before turning and walking slowly away.

…

Stiles has Cora wrapped around his back when they arrive, holding her carefully off the ground so that her feet aren’t sticking out into the rain. The overhang is narrow; barely enough for Stiles, let alone Cora, to fit beneath. But somehow he manages. And as the tall, stately woman Stiles had met not too long before in Café Shifter approaches at a jog bearing an umbrella, the man heaves a sigh of relief. “God, wow, that was pretty short. Do you do track or something?”

“Werewolf,” she replies gruffly.

A man follows quickly in her footsteps, drawing to a stop beside her in loose sweats and a t-shirt that’s a bit too tight. Stiles’ eyes, however, are drawn to his face. Flawless stubble, eyes the color of trees and sunlight, and cheekbones that could chop wood.

Laura motions towards Stiles with her hand, and Hale steps forward to grab at Cora’s arms, draping her none-too-politely over his shoulder.

“Do you know anything about what happened?” Laura asks, adjusting the umbrella until it hovers protectively over Hale and her younger sister. “Do you know why she was there?”

Stiles shrugs. “Dancing, mostly. I mean, I saw her with a few guys-”

“Guys?” she asks, though she seems to shrink in on herself. “Thanks. I – thank you.” And with this, with no explanations or goodbyes, she turns on her heel and leads Hale away from the scene.

Standing under the overhang, Stiles sighs before staring down at the ruined flannel in his hand. “Just you and me, now,” he told his miserably before stepping out from under the cover. The rain is cold against his neck as he jogs back to his apartment, cooling the flush that had risen through him as the night had worn on.

…

_Bnng. Bnng. Bnng._

Stiles groans, hand slipping blindly out from his blankets to slap against his vibrating phone. Snatching it from the bedside table, he blinks away sleep to stare at the screen.

 _Scotty-Do_ , it reads.

Unlocking the screen with his thumb, he accepts the call and presses the phone miserably to his ear. “Bob and Rainbow’s Second Party Escort Service. For seduction, press one. For exploitation, press two. Para en español-”

“ _Stiles, I’m under suspicion for murder._ ”

The man’s voice fell silent, and for a long moment all he could do was stare at the ceiling before rolling his eyes. “For ‘Scott’s High Off His Ass,’ press four.”

 _“I’m not kidding, Stiles._ ”

“What? Do you need me to bail you out of jail or something?”

“ _No, like…_ ” He groans. “ _You know those murders around your apartment?_ ”

“Duh.”

“ _There were, like, bite marks. Big ones. And, like, everyone with a hundred pound dog – or can Shift into one – is going to be watched or something._ ”

Stiles scoffs, throwing his bedsheets aside and rising to his feet. Walking calmly to the bathroom, he set about snatching up his toothbrush and glooping toothpaste onto the bristles. “C’mon, Scott,” he teases, running it under water and adjusting his phone on his shoulder. “You and I both know the police force doesn’t have the manpower to watch – what? Ten thousand people?”

“ _More like a hundred,_ ” Scott corrects as Stiles works at his teeth.

The man rolls his eyes and spits. “Dude, where did you even get this info? The Local Conspirers?”

“ _A police officer,_ ” the Shifter deadpans. “ _A police officer who came to my door with a warrant._ ”

“... No shit.”

“ _Yeah shit._ ”

“How did Allison take this?”

“ _Allison doesn’t know. I mean, do I tell her? I was supposed to meet her parents this weekend, but how are they going to react when their daughter’s boyfriend is suspected for murder?_ ”

“Woah, hey, no!” Stiles panics as Scott’s breathing suddenly grows shallow, air whistling through the speaker like it would so many years before. The way it had before the bite, when his asthma was a crippling mess of hair-triggers. “The police are good with this sort of thing. You didn’t do it so they’re not going to blame you. All they have is a very basic but rather specific requirement that needs to be met, and they’re narrowing it down, okay? Breathe with me – in, out, in, out.” The man slows his breath, easing it through his throat noisily so his friend on the other end of the line can hear it.

Slowly, the whistling falls in pitch, then evens out.

Taking a long, relieved breath, Stiles adjusts the phone on his shoulder and spits one last time in the sink before rising his tooth brush. “You’re going to have to tell Allison.”

“ _And tell her what?_ ”

“The truth, obviously. What else do you ever tell her?”

“ _That her cocoa is good and my mom isn’t pressuring me to move in with her._ ”

Stiles rolls his eyes, stepping out of the bathroom to pad as quietly as he can toward the kitchen. He keeps his voice low, speaking in hushed tones as he passes Malia and Danny’s still closed door. “Okay, white lies aside? You need to tell her that someone’s getting killed and all the police know is that a specific kind of Shifter did it. And you happen to be that kind.”

“ _And you don’t think she’ll be freaked out?_ ”

“Of course she’s going to be freaked out. I’m freaked out,” he admitted. He shivers as his feet meet the frigid linoleum of the kitchen floor. Pulling open the fridge, he surveys it quietly. “It’s a freak out sort of thing, dude. But Allison’s a smart girl. Certainly too smart to be dating you. She’ll understand.” Frowning at the fridge bulb as it sputters and flickers, Stiles closes the fridge and dejectedly retrieves a hot pocket from the freezer.

There’s a bit of a rustle as Scott’s hair scrapes across the mouthpiece – nodding his head – and the man’s smile can be heard. “ _Yeah_ ,” he agrees. “ _She’ll definitely understand. Are you making a Hot Pocket?_ ”

Stiles’ fingers freeze against the wrapping, and he stares blankly into the distance. “No.”

“ _Gross._ ”

“What have we talked about, Scott? No food shaming. Food shaming is mean.”

“ _Yeah, yeah._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone hasn't figured it out yet, I'm writing Stiles as if he had a "Feminist Awakening" in Junior year. Obviously, he's still working on it four years later. EX: Stereotyping people, generally being a hypocrite, etc.
> 
> ALSO OF NOTE: It has been brought to my attention that some people didn't understand the "Reverse Misogyny Jar" as what Malia was saying was actually Misogyny. That is because its full name is the "Reverse Psychology Misogyny Jar," because telling Malia she's being a misogynist would be hazardous to the health. (There is no such thing as "Reverse Misogyny.")


	4. Mr. Hale

Sprawled across Scott’s lap in the teeny-tiny loveseat in Scott’s teeny-tiny living room, feet brushing against the wall, Stiles groans. “Why would you buy this game?”

“You weren’t complaining when you were winning,” Scott points out bitterly. He shifts from side to side, attempting to find some happy-medium resembling comfort beneath his friend’s incredibly body ass.

On screen, Stiles’ round animated avatar is throwing punches at the side of the screen as his tower collapses. Scott’s zipper digs into his ass in a particularly painful manner. He attempts to adjust his tailbone away, but the effort seems moot. There isn’t enough room in the apartment to be vaguely comfortable alone, let alone with two people pinched between the eclectic and grotesquely disfigured disasters Scott dares to call furniture.

The loveseat barely fits in the living room, taking up nearly two thirds of the space and pushed flush against the thoroughly gouged table barely supporting a third hand 15” flatscreen and the old, battered Xbox they’d had joint custody of since it came out sixteen years prior, in 2001. (They had been five and six, respectively.) The chair itself is small. Threadbare. It even smells rather faintly of something sour, despite having been rescued from a street corner at the beginning of their Freshman year. Like a particularly virulent cockroach, it had proved immune to febreeze, a large quantity of bleach, and even a car wash they had dragged it through as a last resort. So instead it simply smelled of  spoiled dairy and Tahitian Sunrise – or so claimed the air freshener they had jammed beneath the cushion.

Stiles watched as Scott piled the last of the blocks atop his tower, reaching the ceiling of the screen and earning a round of cartoonish fanfare. The Shifter threw his hands up, hooting and hollering as quietly as he could with his victory. Atop him, the younger man rolls his eyes. The neighbors smack against the wall and shout for them to keep it down. Stiles slaps his foot against it in reply. But what he hoped would be an annoying, hollow thump is just a weak, shallow little slap that does little more than hurt his foot.

It is then that three urgent knocks sound from the door.

Lifting the younger man with a bare amount of effort, Scott rises to his feet and drops his friend unceremoniously on the smelly loveseat. He stomps unceremoniously to the door, ignoring the complaints of the sore loser he’s leaving in his wake in lieu of slapping a wide, dopey look on his face as he coos, “It’s probably Allison.” But when it’s unlocked and thrown wide his smile drops suddenly. On the other side, a police officer stands bearing a very thick stack of papers.

“Scott McCall?” the officer inquires. He’s a tall, dark man. His hat is under his arm, and the stack of papers seems to grow the longer the younger men stare at it.

“Yes?” Scott replies quietly, blinking owlishly.

Stiles stumbles to his feet behind him, approaching his friend in some convoluted show of support.

“I’m Musa Williams of the NYPD. Sorry to bother you at home, but this is regarding the news we brought you last week.”

“So this is about the whole… thing?”

Musa looks at him skeptically for a long moment before asking, “May I come in?”

“Yes, please, come in,” Scott offers, stepping aside to invite him into the foyer. This turns out to be one of his not-so-great ideas as he, Musa, and Stiles are now clustered far too intimately in the entryway.

Stiles realizes quite suddenly that he could kiss both his companions full on the mouth and they – Police Officer and Shifter be damned – might not be able to stop him.

It is one of his stranger moments.

Granted, they are nose to nose. And Musa – poor, unconditioned Musa – looks a little green. Either from the smell of Scott’s body odor or the noxious fart Stiles had released not ten minutes prior, which lingered like a particularly clingy relative. After which neither of them could be assed to open the only window in the apartment. (Something Allison insists is a health code violation.)

They eventually retreat to the kitchen, as the living room won’t facilitate anything vaguely resembling standing room. Musa opens by handing Scott one of the many thick stacks of paperwork and announcing, “Due to the complexity and scale of the case, we’re giving everyone who fits the parameters three possible game plans. You get to choose between them after reading through and deciding which would be least invasive with your lifestyle.”

Scott nods slowly, staring down at the stack in his hands. For a moment they seem to blur, the legalize merging into one large blob of ink on the paper. He makes it all of four sentences before giving up. “Could you just summarize what it says?”

“Sure,” Musa agrees, looking a bit eager to get out of the apartment soon. “Option one is having a chip implanted in your thigh-”

“Oh god,” Stiles gags.

“- which will record your location and conversations.”

“That sounds…” Scott pauses. “Invasive.”

The police officer nods agreeably. “The second option is to room in a dorm with other shifters, checking in with a handler before you leave and when you get back.”

Stiles and Scott exchange looks at this, eyes narrowed curiously.

“And, finally, there’s the option of a police-sanctioned roommate.”

“Police sanctioned?”

“It’s where you find someone, they get a background check, and if everything turns out okay they can give us updates about you. They check in. Share your space. Make sure you’re not sneaking off.” He glances around the apartment uneasily, turning his eyes none-too-subtly toward the door. “And if that’s all the questions you have at the moment, I should be on my way. An officer will be by later this week to pick up your paperwork and get everything settled with you.”

Nodding slowly, Scott took that man’s hand in a firm handshake. “Thanks,” he says, though the word sounds a bit empty.

“Have a good day,” Musa mumbles lowly. He steps over to the door and tries the door knob. But when it makes no attempt to move he grimaces. The man gives it a good and thorough pull, then again, before wrenching it near hard enough to give himself a hernia. It snaps to the side violently, and with a dissatisfied grunt he steps through and closes the door rather forcefully in his wake.

Scott stares after him in a daze, mouth hanging slightly open before he turns back to stare at the paperwork in his hands.

Slapping his hand onto the older man’s shoulder, Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude, don’t think so hard. You’ll break something.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Scott confesses, face pale. By the time the stack of contracts slap the cheap linoleum floor he’s retching into the toilet, nerves firing wildly and head a convoluted mess of anxiety.

…

The half mile walk from the claustrophobic second-cousin of a coat closet Scott dared to call an apartment to Café Shifter is neither enjoyable nor brief. A storm has kicked up, wind tossing them like pathetic strips of particularly clammy paper from one end of the sidewalk to the other. The only way they manage to make any sort of process is by draping their arms over each others’ shoulders and hunching beneath the spray of rain. But as they finally slap their way through the glass door and the bell rings three times, the pair find themselves smack dab in the center of a crowd of rather angry Shifters.

Some of them are partially turned, eyes glimmering and claws protruding harshly from their fingertips like a neat row of briars.

“Now let’s all get this under control, okay?” Erica is demanding, standing between two particularly vicious-looking Shifters. “No one’s gutting anyone. Not on my linoleum.”

“Fuck control!” an older man shouts. “D’is is blatant discrim’nation. We need ta org’nize. D’ey need t’ know we can’t be treated like d’is!” This is met with a round of cheers, and some clapping, before the man opposite him, on the other side of Erica, speaks.

“And who’s ‘they,’ huh?” he snaps. He’s significantly younger; around college age. “The police? Their lawyers? The state itself?”

“Well then, yer majesty, how ‘bout we just lay down and take it? Let them walk all over us?”

“No-”

The man goes to hop atop a table, but before he can Erica is grabbing his leg and tossing him to the floor. “Get off my table,” she snaps, “and get out of this shop before you start a goddamn riot.”

“I’m not g’nna-”

“If you’re going to inspire people, do it outside. Some of us have jobs to do.”

A heavy silence falls over the small crowd before it begins to disperse, scads of people flowing through the front door and out into the street with grumbles of discontent. Stiles and Scott scoot off to the side to avoid them, approaching the counter where Isaac wipes the cappuccino machine with a rag.

“Hey, Isaac,” Stiles greets with a half-smile, hand raised in greeting.

The barista spares him a look before turning back to his work.

“You’re as friendly as always.”

“Do you have anything for upset stomachs?” Scott asks, leaning heavily against the counter.

Isaac glances over at him briefly before turning towards the back wall. He retrieves a small jar, snatching a bag from the center before placing it back on the shelf. “One dollar,” he says, gaze hard and even.

Reaching for his pocket, Scott scowls. “Crap, I forgot my wallet. Stiles?” He turns to the his friend, who pats down the back of his jeans with a grimace.

“Sorry, man. I did, too.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The men turn to find Erica standing behind them, looking far too small – fragile, even, though Stiles was sure she could pitch him across the café with one hand – in a pair of ballet slippers.

“Uh… Thanks,” Scott manages. “You’re kind of a lifesaver.”

“Don’t thank me,” she tells him softly. “I want something.”

…

It’s 9AM and Stiles is cold.

There’s a box digging into his leg, a four year old is screaming for candy, the world vibrating on a subsonic level, and some dipwad with an IQ Stiles likened to a deceased squirrel decided it was a good idea to pry the doors open between stops and stick his nose between them. This resulted in the most unpleasant breeze Stiles has ever experienced and the most violent full-body tackle he has ever personally witnessed.

On the upside, he only has to sit through two stops.

That morning, Stiles had boarded the subway with the intention of moving an embarrassingly small box of all his possessions (sans his bed, obviously) eight miles across town and into the apartment of one Mr. Hale. The five minutes that follow – during which he is convinced he has managed to contract malaria – are far from pleasant. And by the time he emerges from the subway with a medium-thin layer of grime and infectious diseases, he can’t feel his toes. Or his ass, to be honest.

Adjusting his backpack, Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket. He slides his thumb across the screen to unlock it, revealing a shining yellow marker and map. An arrow points straight behind him. Turning on his heel, the man starts down the street, his hand wrapped possessively around the box as he walks as close to the buildings as he can manage. It’s overcast today; barely a ray of sunshine to be seen between sleepy clouds and a rather vindictive looking toxic layer of smog.

The building Stiles’ GPS leads him to is old. It’s made entirely of brick, towering over the street like a wrestler with unusually good posture. Stiles approaches the entryway with an apprehensive grimace. There’s no one going in or out for him to catch the door, leaving him with no choice but to step up to the panel built into the wall.

For a long moment he can only glare at it.

There are instructions at the top telling him to “dial the apartment,” but what kind of dial? Phone number? Room number? Floor and assignment? Feeling particularly childish, Stiles dials the number “1” and waits for it to begin to ring. Which it does three times before someone answers.

And promptly hangs up.

They, Stiles figures, must get this a lot.

He dials “2” and waits patiently once more for it to finish ringing.

“ _Hello?_ ” someone asks after two tones.

“Yes, is this apartment 412?”

“ _Learn how to use a fucking intercom._ ”

The call ends and Stiles sniggers amusedly. Whelp, it wasn’t them.

“3” and “4” don’t answer, and “5” seems convinced he’s an alien invader. Stiles assures them quickly that they need to remain right where they are and that he’ll be in touch as soon as the mothership will let him – that he loves them and they are his top priority – before jamming his thumb into the bright red button that he assumes (correctly) will end the call.

Dialling “6,” Stiles waits patiently for them to pick up. But when the line clicks he is not met with a human voice, but with the insistent barking of a dog.

“ _Back, Lacy,_ ” a woman snaps, and the barking gets fainter. “ _Hello?_ ”

Definitely not him. “Sorry about this,” Stiles apologizes, a foreign sensation of lightness growing in his stomach. “I’m trying to reach apartment 412.”

“ _Oh – did they not give you their code?_ ”

“No, they didn’t.”

“ _I’m sorry. I live on the eleventh floor, so I really have no idea who you’re trying to reach._ ”

Stiles feels a rush of heat flushing his cheeks and face. “I – no. Don’t apologize. I just… I’ll just keep trying. Thanks and… have a good day?”

The woman laughs, and it’s a bright, clear sound. “ _You, too._ ”

The line goes dead and Stiles feels like he’s walking on air. He’s absolutely convinced that the person he is now dialing, “7,” is going to be Mr. Hale.

So when they pick up he’s really not prepared for the gruff, “ _H’lo?_ ”

That didn’t sound like a particularly scary-looking Shifter would sound. “412?” Stiles asks.

“ _Fuckin’..._ ” The man hisses lowly, and there’s the creaking of springs. “ _If you’re one of them ‘dial every number until you get the right one’ sons of bitches I’m going to call the fuckin’ police. You hear-_ ”

“I must have hit yours by mistake. Sorry!” Stiles interjects, slamming his thumb into the red button before heaving a sigh. Punching in an “8,” he waits patiently for it to connect. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“ _Marcus, is that you?_ ”

“Uh, no. No Marcus here,” Stiles replies as warmly as he can. It’s an elderly woman, voice worn and rough with age. “I’m trying to get a hold of apartment 412. Do you know how I work this thing?”

“ _It’s very simple. You dial their assigned number and…_ ” The woman gasps.

“Hello?”

“ _And I, uh…_ ” She trails off, voice growing distant before she hums a short tune lightly.  “ _Marcus, is that you?_ ”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise exponentially. “What the hell?”

“ _Shame on you! That’s no way to talk to your grandmama!_ ”

“Are you okay?”

Another short silence. “ _Marcus, is that you?_ ”

Stiles remains quiet for a long while before answering as sweetly as he can manage, “Yes, grandmama. Can you buzz me in?”

“ _Of course, sweetheart. Come right up!_ ”

There’s a loud buzz and the door at Stiles’ side pops open. Not one to miss an opportunity, he grips the handle tight and steps through. The lobby is about as simple as the exterior. The walls are exposed brick, interspersed occasionally with abstract paintings. And… Well, Stiles can now see why you need a keycard to so much as get into the lobby.

“Which floor?”

Stiles jumps, spinning hectically around to face the young man standing in a service elevator. “Uh-”

The man sighs. “The regular elevator is due for maintenance, so until such a time as it is repaired tenants must call me to their floors and rely on my assistance unless they wish to use the stairs.”

Stiles remains in place for a long while before stepping slowly over toward the service elevator. He steps over the divider with a grimace.

“Which floor?” the bellhop asks dejectedly.

“Uh…” Stiles swallows. “Four.”

Hand snapping forward, the man drew a wire grate closed across the entrance of the elevator before grabbing at a handle. Tilting it forward, he belatedly informs Stiles to, “Brace yourself.”

Stiles has already collapsed to the floor, knees still weak from the vibrations of the subway taken out by the ungodly shudder that wracks the floor of the elevator.

The bellboy just laughs. “Don’t touch the walls,” is the only warning he gives when Stiles attempts to stumble to his feet.

Concrete rushes past the wire cage that passes for a service elevator. Wind whistles through the cracks. Stiles eyes the wall warily as he staggers to his feet, the motion leaving his eyes reeling and his head spinning. And when the elevator lurches and comes to a stop he is far from prepared, falling forward into the wire grate that had been locked into place. Beyond it is a long hallway, with white plaster walls and heavy-looking doors.

“Fourth floor,” the bellboy announces simply, reaching forward to undo the latch.

Stiles manages to straighten just in time so that he doesn’t fall through into the hallway, only to be ushed out anyway. The grate is drawn closed behind him and the elevator leaves.

And then he’s there.

On the fourth floor.

Staring at rooms 401, 408, and 416 and kind of seriously lost.

Without much else to do, he walks. He walks until he finds a dead end, and then he turns right back around and walks again. It’s not until he passes through the hallway a third time that he finds it, jammed in a small, nearly invisible branch away from the main hallway; apartment 412. Adjusting the box of his possessions in his arm, Stiles knocks three times and waits.

Not thirty seconds later, a man steps out of 411 with a large bag of trash, pausing at the sight of Stiles. “You looking for something?”

“Uh… yeah. Sorta. Just… waiting for someone to answer.”

“Well, that might take a while. I heard a shower running.”

“A shower?” Stiles groans.

“Just knock occasionally. He’ll hear you eventually. That’s what everyone else does.”

Stiles gasps. “Everyone else? Do people wait out here a lot or something?”

The neighbor shrugs, black garbage bag rustling against his leg. “Yeah, actually. They’re really quiet, but a lot of people stop by. Most of their family is gone, but there’s always someone new at their door saying they’re an uncle or a sister or a cousin. So what about you?”

“Huh?”

“Cousin? Brother? Fiance?”

“Uh… Roommate.” And with these words many things happen at once.

First, the door to apartment 412 flies wide open. Second, Stiles’ box of belongings splits and strews his few worldly possessions across the tacky multicolored carpet. Third, the neighbor in 411 begins to laugh. And finally, Mr. Hale appears in the doorway, sopping wet and clad in nothing but an enormous towel clinging stiffly to his thighs like a particularly severe pencil skirt.

Stiles doesn’t quite pay attention to what follows. One second he’s standing awkwardly in the hallway, his belongings strewn artfully across the floor (with a bright purple, rather large bottle of lube standing upright atop a textbook as a glorious tiara for the veritable collection of action figures and flannels,) the next he’s standing beside a very large, very leather couch with the box in the trash and his things in a small laundry basket.

And now Mr. Hale has clothes, much to the approval of the Asexuals in the audience.

“So, any rules I need to be aware of?” Stiles asks as the man strides into the room. “No touching the couch? Wipe down the TV twice a week? No candles?” He waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t touch Lola?”

Hale rolls his eyes.

Stiles is perplexed by this. “Seriously, though. How do you afford this place?”

The Shifter stiffens, then turns toward the kitchen. “We bought it with the settlement money.”

Following curiously, the younger man barely manages to catch this. “Settlement money?” he inquires.

“Yes.”

This, much to Stiles’ despair, is all Mr. Hale has to say for the day.

…

It takes an entire week for Stiles to figure out the bus schedules, trek to Café Shifter, and slam his face into the table as Erica makes his Cocoacaine. “Why the hell did I agree to switch apartments with Laura again?”

“Because there’s a serial killer on the loose, Hale needed a human roommate, you’re a nice person, and now you get free cocoa for as long as you’re living with him,” Erica reminds him, eyeing the vanilla as she pours it carefully into the mug. “And it’s the right thing to do.”

“I’m pretty sure half of that was a lie. You are a lying liar. Who lies.”

Erica laughs. “How's Hale treating you?”

Accepting his now finished cocoa with a drawn smiles, Stiles retreats into his regular chair. “He's not really much of a talker. I'm not going to lie – living with him kind of sucks. I need someone I can shoot the shit with or I just start dying inside."

“So living with Hale makes you die inside. Good to know.”

Stiles groans. “Okay, no, like – it’s not that bad. But fuck if it isn’t getting there.”

Erica rolls her eyes, head lolling with the movement. Her hair spills out of her clip with the motion. Grabbing at it angrily, she twirled her hair expertly before clamping the accessory into place. Satisfied it’s out of the way, she maneuvers around the counter and takes a seat opposite Stiles. “It's only been, what? A week?”

“ Yeah. And do you know how many words he's spoken to me in a whole week?”

“You've been counting?”

“Eight.”

She snorts “Petty little brat, aren’t you?”

“That’s not even enough to fill a sentence!”

“So? Your little pile of fur has barely whined at you, and you're complaining about a short sentence?”

“Derek is not a little pile of fur.”

“My statement stands.”

“Two sentences grand total,” he deadpanned sharply, leaning forward to press his elbows to the tabletop. “Both within ten seconds of each other. In a kitchen.”

Erica scoffs, propping her own arm on the table and pressing her face lazily into her hand. “You're lucky to get that much out of him,” she teases. “He must like you.”

Shrinking into himself, Stiles sips dejectedly from his mug. “If that's his version of like I can do without, thanks.”

“Give him a chance, okay? He's... I'm not going to say he's a talker,” she defends quietly, “because he's not. But he is a good guy. And just like the rest of us, he’s going through a rough time.”

Stiles grimaces. “I don't really ca-”

“He likes kettle corn,” she interjected sharply, leaning forward onto the table. “Cheapest kind you can get your hands on. He doesn't even care about the chemicals they put in that shit to keep it fresh; guy's got a sweet tooth.”

The man stares, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. “You're kidding.”

“And he likes small budget slice of life films. Put one of those on and he's sure to like you.”

“Erica, I don't want him to like me,” he advocates, voice twisting into a high pitched whine.

“But what if he already does?”

“Then he obviously isn’t mean for human interaction.”

“Just do it, okay?”

Stiles takes another sip of his Cocoacaine, collapsing lazily into the curve of the chair. It squeaks in protest. He turns his attention away from the woman across from him and toward the glass windows of the shop. The people outside pass by. Men in suits, women in dresses, kids with backpacks – a cornucopia of lives that have absolutely nothing to do with them. Mr. Hale might as well have been among them. “Why?”

“Because…” She bites her lip. “Because he's pack, and pack can feel pack.”

“So this is all for selfish reasons?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

They lapse into silence after this, the entire shop seeming still in the afternoon light. The sun is shining through the smog; brighter than usual. It slants across the floor, pooling across tables and chairs, glaring off the cappuccino machine and scattering over the ceiling in long streaks of white.

“So…” Stiles begins after a while, sipping from the remaining dregs of his mug. “How's Derek doing?”

Leaning back into her own chair, Erica scoffs. “If I get him to talk, I'll tell you.”

“You just said pack can feel pack.”

“Well, yeah. But everyone in the Hale family is like one big blob of misery. It’s annoying.”

…

Walking from Café Shifter takes less time than Stiles remembers. Though this may have something to do with the sheer amount of silence he has been subjected to as of late. Before too long he’s in the lobby, riding the elevator to the eleventh floor, and knocking furiously on door 1125.

Malia answers with a grimace. “What are you doing here?”

“I called earlier,” he drawls back. “I forgot my Adderall refill.”

“Trust you to remember your computer and your lube, but not your own head.”

“If it makes you feel better, if I were moving in with you I would have forgotten the lube entirely.” Stepping around Malia and into the apartment, Stiles draws to an abrupt stop just inside the living room.

Laura is perched atop the back of the couch, swaddled in blankets and clutching a rather large, disgustingly fluffy pillow. Her eyes have swiveled away from the television to fix on the man as, on screen, a large dinosaur ravages through rural California.

“Uh, hey,” he greets just as two civilians are swallowed whole by what he’s pretty sure is an herbivore. “How are you adjusting to the switch?”

The older woman replies with a low mumble into the pillow.

Stiles blinks. “That-”

“She said it’s cool. Less room, but it’s cozier than her place,” Malia translates. She hums appreciatively as a woman screams and the screen fades to black, giving way to the jingling of commercial music.

A woman in a bright red shower cap waves through the fourth wall, then steps onto a bath mat. “ _Do you like to wash your back? Oh no! Do you like to scrub the tub? Oh no!_ ”

Danny steps into the kitchen, waving a polite hello to the younger man.

Stiles waves back before turning to Laura. “Well, I hope my room doesn't smell too bad.”

“ _Stick with scrubbing scrubbers for your little flubbing flubbers!_ ”

Malia laughs.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“She’s not sleeping in your room,” the taller man corrects. “I am.”

Stiles frowns. “What?”

On screen, the woman brandishes a brightly colored, highly glorified stick with a loofah at the end and sings, “ _Wherever bath supplies are being sold!_ ” before it cuts to a shot of a man holding a puppy.

“ _Little Fido peed on the carpet again. The third time this week! Don’t clean it up – come to John Fork’s puppy training parlor!_ ”

Danny rolls his eyes. “If we had a black light…” He trails off, then scoffs. “Actually, I don't even have to imagine, because I made that mistake last night. I turned on my black light, Stiles. In your room.

“That’s-”

Striding out of the room, smoothie in hand, Danny waves a silent farewell.

“ _We’ll have him obeying in two weeks flat for a price that won’t break the bank._ ”

Malia snorts, and Laura shifts from side to side as Stiles stares at the retreating man.

“Is it just me, or is he being less passive and more aggressive than usual?” he asks as Dinosaurs once more begin to rampage through rural California.

The younger woman shakes her head. “He just really hates your room.”

…

“Dad, no, dad. I’m fine, okay?” Stiles shouts over the cacophony of car horns and roaring buses. “I’m all moved out, I’ve got my Adderall, and I’m in a nice place until the murders stop.”

“ _And you’re sure it’s safe?_ ”

“Yeah. You have to be buzzed in and everything. Even I have issues getting inside and I have a keycard, okay? An actual keycard. It’s got slider marks and a fancy logo and everything.”

“ _How is that supposed to make me feel better when the door is made of glass?_ ”

Stiles pauses before the door in question, sliding the keycard through the scanner and stepping through the unlocked door. Making his way over to the elevator, he groans. He taps insistently on the button for the fourth floor. “Dad, it doesn’t really matter, okay? There are cameras around every corner. This place is ten times more secure than my last place, and my roommate may be weird as all get-out, but he’s the farthest thing from a serial killer it’s not even funny.” The doors slide shut, and slowly the car begins to ascend. “Can I go now? I have to study.”

“ _Fine. But don’t think this is the end of this conversation._ ”

“I love you, Dad.”

“ _I love you, too._ ”

They hang up, and Stiles steps out of the elevator and on to his floor. He slowly makes his way over to the apartment door, unlocking it with the shiny new key in his pocket before stepping through. In the distance, water runs. Glancing to the side of the door, he finds Hale’s shoes lined neatly against the wall. Dragging his finger across the surface of his phone, Stiles navigates to the texts to the secure line with the police and types out, “ _4:15PM, still at home._ ”

Collapsing into the couch, Stiles snags the TV remote from the coffee table and flicks it on with one lazy finger. He’s five minutes into an episode of Teen Hulk when a foreign buzzing comes from beneath his ass. Leaping defensively to his feet, Stiles’ fingers slip into the curve of the couch, gripping the cushion by the seam before pulling it away. There, lying oh-so-innocently against the lining, is a slip black phone that vibrates angrily at him. He picks it up curiously, turning it over in his hands before shouting, “Hale, phone call.”

No reply comes.

Rolling it eyes, the man sets the device on the table, resettles the cushion, and turns back to the TV. His eyes trailing over the long line of Lydia Martin’s back – or, rather, her character Holland’s back – as she seduces the Werewolf cousin of Thor. He forgets all about the phone call. All about Hale’s lack of reaction in the shower. All about the sticky situation they’re in with the world.

…

The streets are oddly empty as Laura jogs down an alley just off Flushing, the steady clap, clap, clap of her shoes against dirty, grainy pavement echoing from wall to wall as she clutches a paper bag close to her chest. She looks behind her; eyes scanning the open air behind her. It’s empty, but a charge has been set to the air. The woman turns on her heel and breaks into a dead sprint.

She makes it three blocks before she sees it; a dark, slim figure clinging to the fire escape of a nearby building. Turning sharply, she bursts into the first place she sees; a convenience store. Skidding to a stop before the cashier, she demands sharply, “Bathroom key.”

“Buy something first,” the boy says, glancing up from a magazine.

Snatching a small candy from the display, the woman slaps down a dollar bill.

The key is slid across the counter, and she grabs it without hesitating, racing over to the door on the far side of the store marked, “Restroom. (Ask cashier for key.)”

Barricading herself inside, she turns all the locks and snatches her phone desperately from her pocket. As she slides her thumb across the screen the menu bursts into being. “Speed dial one,” she tells it, pressing the device to her face as her eyes slide to the door.

It rings five times before  the airy voice of a woman floats over the speaker. “ _I’m sorry. The person you have called is not available. To leave a message press one, or wait for the tone. For more options, press 4._ ”

There’s a short, pregnant silence that follows the instructions, and Laura’s eyes fix on the door as it shudders under the force of a foreign weight. The phone beeps.

“It’s a kanima,” is all she manages before the door bursts open in a shower of splinters.


	5. Button-Up Straight Jackets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember everyone who helped me with this chapter, so big thanks to Arnaud and CloveeD with tentative thanks to Malaproprian, Miz, and Carrie.

Stiles wakes to the fluttering of fabric against his nose and forehead, contouring gracefully to the shape of his chin and neck. A whisper of something soft and clean with sturdy, elegant lines. A long-buried scent of laundry detergent in the depth of the fabric. Gentle hints of musk…

… flying into his face at what he would later claim to be ninety miles per hour.

Flailing desperately to his feet, Stiles’ toes catch in the folds of his blanket, dropping him to a floor. He falls with an anguished wail. Fumbling for balance, he shifts onto his hip before scrambling to get the offending article off his face. “Jesus-” he gasps. His eyes immediately land on the dark figure at the door, staring down at him. “What if I didn’t wake up and I suffocated? ‘Man Killed By Shirt: Police File Under Bizarre Coincidence’ isn’t the headline I want when I die.”

“Put it on,” Hale demands, crossing his arms over the shirt of an immaculate ensemble. [There’s a tailored velvet vest, a soft-looking creme shirt, and a… cravat](http://www.styleapastiche.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/il_430xn-22168694.jpg)?

“You look ridiculous,” Stiles announces.

Rolling his eyes, the Shifter throws the remainder of the clothes in his arms at the man on the floor, eyebrows arching. And with this final bit of comunique, he leaves.

On the floor, Stiles groans. He looks over the fabric pooled before him. Deciding it to be too much trouble, he rises to his feet. Stripping off his shirt and pajama pants, he steps over to the closet, retrieving a shirt and a pair of clean boxers before pulling on some jeans. The floor is frigid as he steps through the room. The hardwood creaks beneath his toes, shifting ominously out of place before groaning back into place in his wake. It is this that Stiles focuses on when he heads into the kitchen; this that distracts him from the utterly crestfallen expression that crosses Hale’s face.

Least to say, it’s a bit of a surprise when large hands settle on his shoulders, wheeling him back into the room and closing the door forcefully behind him.

Staring at the window across from him, Stiles blinks curiously.

Hadn’t he just been in the kitchen?

It all catches up to him rather quickly, and he turns to glare at the door behind him. Not wanting to give in to whatever game Hale was playing, he boots up his laptop. The welcome chime greets him cheerily. Settling onto his bed, Stiles logs in and loads up the internet, navigating quickly to Netflix. He’s ten minutes into Final Hearts: Advent of Cerberus when Hale storms in, expression grim.

On screen, a boy in a onesie with long blond hair advocates to a nonexistent audience, _“We have to lock the lifestream. If Deepground gets there before we do they’ll harvest all the Light from Rocket Town.”_

Hale slams the laptop shut with a touch more force than is probably necessary and hisses out, “Hurry up,” shoving the laptop under his arm before stomping angrily from the room, floorboards creaking ominously.

“Hey!” Stiles snaps, jumping up from his bed in time to catch the older man on his way out the door. His fingers grip the large shoulder almost forcefully, though he knew it would take a lot more than that to make the man flinch. “What the hell? Give me my laptop back!”

Mr. Hale turns to him, then, and there’s a sort of weariness in his expression as he glances down at Stiles’ hand.

Stiles looks to where he grips the man’s shoulder, fingers digging in a way that looks painful into the meat of it. Then he turns back to Hale, jaw falling open as a wave of something washes over him. Something hot. Something sweet. Something that makes his stomach churn and his throat close up and his head swim desperately for any kind of shore instead of drowning in something, something, something. “I’m… taking my hand off,” he murmurs after a long while, fingers sliding from the soft velvet of the man’s vest.

Hollow footsteps sound through the room as Hale storms away.

Stiles, in defeat, turns to the pile of clothes.

The shirt isn’t silk, which he doesn’t think he should be trusted with anyway, but it’s silky beneath his fingers. It’s a light grey. Thankfully it’s not shiny. It is, however, a little big on him. The fabric billows around his stomach and biceps, only fitting about the shoulders. This, Stiles realizes, is the difference between him and Mr. Hale, physically. (Aside from the whole _Fuckin’ Werewolf_ thing.)

The pants, thankfully, fit. As do the socks; fancy little things with long grooves and a gold “J. A. H.” stitched into each top hem. Stiles dares to call them stockings. Though he retracts this thought upon giving them a cursory sniff and discovering a light, unpleasant tinge of smoke. And once that’s sorted, the man stares down at the little slip of fabric puddled on the floor. It’s too short and wide to be a tie, but he attempts to use it as one anyway. But when a Windsor falls through he simply drapes it around his neck. This is how he wanders into the living room; shirt loose, tie undone, and shoeless.

Hale is on him in an instant, rolling the sleeves of the shirt to the elbows, tucking them into the pants. For a moment Stiles panics because his hands are warm. Big. Strong. He panics because they’re close to places they shouldn’t be. He panics because fingers are playing with the V leading to his groin and over the thin layer of fabric above his hips, just above his buttocks. And then… then they’re at his neck. Smoothing the strip of fabric between long, thick fingers and twisting them at the base of Stiles’ throat, [deftly working it into something resembling order before tucking the ends into Stiles’ shirt.](http://www.tiesplanet.com/images/navy-blue-geometric-pattern-casual-cravat-p221-274_zoom.jpg)

Finally, when the Shifter pulls away, he nods.

Before Stiles knows what’s going on – not that he knew in the first place – he’s wearing a nice pair of shoes and being pushed into a taxi.

He knows better than to ask where they’re going.

…

They pull out in front of a smaller, older building. It’s not brick, but stone, and stands brightly polished beneath the morning sun. The sign, large and elegant, reads _Lychaeon Star Funeral Home_ in burnished bronze. “What-” Stiles manages to murmur before Erica strides purposefully out of the doors.

Her suit jacket is taut across her shoulders, shifting her shirt from side to side and sending [the beige ribbons of her cravat](http://img01.cp.aliimg.com/bao/uploaded/i4/13157021638048535/T1fc5aXq8cXXXXXXXX_!!0-item_pic.jpg) fluttering in the breeze like a particularly panicked swarm of drunken butterflies. She lurches forward uneasily in her flats, stumbling into Hale with eyes streaked with rivers of eyeliner.

Stiles watches the display with wide eyes as the woman collapses against the larger man’s vest with a broken sob. In response, Hale barely moves. His hand comes up to grasp the back of her neck, revealed by a twist in her hair keeping it in a neat, fashionable bun. After a long while she quiets, then turns to their onlooker with a weak smile.

“Thank you for coming,” she tells him, voice a bare croak.

Uneasily, he replies with a bleak, “No problem,”

When they step into the parlor, Stiles realizes suddenly why he’s been dragged across town without so much as an explanation. There, in the entryway, is a large sign with a familiar woman’s face, along with an elegant gold script.

_Laura Jamie Hale_

_December 25, 1992 – April 23rd, 2016_

_Beloved Sister_

…

When Stiles first sees the casket he’s distracted by the circle of purple flowers laid upon the top in place of a bouquet. But as Hale’s hand presses against the dip of his back he begins to realize a great many things that grow increasingly alarming. First are the people. There are barely five in the room, and Stiles finds himself recognizing nearly all of them. There is Erica, of course, with a dark-skinned man at her side. Cora sits regally near the front, a careful mask of indifference on her face. The biggest surprise is Malia, sitting calmly in the corner beside a man in a wheelchair, grotesque scars stretching across his neck and face, head lolled to the side.

Second, he finds his eyes gravitating to everyone’s necks, where a cravat lay heavily against their shirts; a statement of sorts. Of what, Stiles didn’t know.

And, finally, there was the coffin itself.

Closed.

Stepping up to the pedestal, a older man cleared this throat. “May we proceed?” he asks, directing his question at Erica, though he seems to be torn between professionalism and drawling, “Bad turn out.”

Despite the funeral director’s obvious unease, the woman nods slightly.

He clears his throat again. “Friends and family,” he addressed, looking over all seven of them rather bleakly, “we are gathered here today to address the passing of Laura Jamie Hale.”

Stiles goes stiff, the gravity of the situation creeping up his spine and gripping his throat with a cold, wiry hand. He doesn’t hear much of what is said; the funeral director’s sweet, tender drone hitting him somewhere off-center. It floats in one ear, out the other as he sits on the bench, shivering in the AC. He recalls quite suddenly the last time he’d heard anything remotely like this. Remembers a stiff, cold church pew. A man with a frock. His father taking him by the hand and the tears that had run down his face for days and days and days.

The funeral director raises a hand toward them, face clad in a professional smile that hangs almost cynically from his eyes. For a long moment Stiles is confused. Does he have to say something? No one told him about this. He glances around for a second, and finds that Erica’s eyes are on him. Watching him, as if confused. Or angry.

 _Yes,_ he realizes silently. _There’s definitely a bit of anger in there._

Thankfully, before he has to do something stupid like ask someone what’s going on, Hale rises to his feet and shuffles to the podium. The already heavy silence seems to multiply in weight, crushing Stiles’ lungs until they’re nothing more than a par of smushed lumps beside his kidneys.

Slowly, Mr. Hale’s eyes settle over the audience, lingering on each and every person for a bit longer than was necessary before they finally landed on Stiles.

There was a powerful whoosh of sensation through his body as the man’s eyes flashed momentarily blue, but in an instant it’s gone. In its place is a solemn but angry green.

“Before the fire,” he begins, gaze now fixed pointedly on the pedestal as he addresses the crowd, “everyone called her Jam-Jam.”

In the back, there came a choked sob.

“After, she seemed to be waiting for something bad to happen. I just wish that hadn’t stopped her from letting the world see her dance.” This, it seems, is all he has to say, stepping down from the pedestal and taking his seat beside Stiles as the funeral director took his place.

…

The refreshment room is lavishly furnished, with navy cushions on each chair and a small, neat napkin for each place setting. Even the walls are color coordinated, the deep blue of the flowers printed along the wallpaper going well with the lamps and tables.

Sidling over to the punch bowl, Stiles taps Erica’s shoulder and whispers lowly, “Where’s Derek?”

“If you were paying attention during the service,” the woman snaps under her breath, “you would know.”

He blinks owlishly at her, mouth falling open minutely. “I-”

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, spinning him around and sliding around to his back before leading him away from the woman.

Stiles allows himself to be led, glancing about to stare at the large black man with friendly eyes. Before long he’s being pushed into a chair and the stranger is taking a seat opposite him. “Uh-”

“She needs space right now,” the man informs him quietly. “I’m Boyd, her boyfriend.”

“Are you a…” Stiles trails off, noting his large hands and flawless skin.

“A Shifter?” Boyd asks, chuckling. “No. I was supposed to get the bite a few weeks ago, but then… Well, Erica needed a roommate.”

The squeal of wood on tile screeches through the room as Cora yanks a chair away from the table, collapsing onto one of the cushions with a groan. Her hair hang freely, unlike Erica’s and Malia’s, swinging over the back of her chair as she squirms in her dress. “Hey Boyd. Mr. Umbrella,” she greets dryly.

“Cora,” Boyd replies lowly.

“Satan,” Stiles notes appropriately. They fall into a brief silence before the man speaks again, waving his hand toward his companion’s necks with a drawn expression. “Mind filling me in why everyone’s wearing a poofy tie?”

The larger man chuckles.

Cora doesn’t look nearly as amused. “She wanted us to wear them.”

“What Cora means to say,” Erica says, stepping up behind her, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, “is that they’re called cravats.” Her lips twisted up at the corners, crinkling her eyes in what must have been the most sincere smile of the evening. Settling into the last open chair, she gives a small sigh. “A few months ago, when I first got the bite, Cora had a big fight with her. I don’t remember quite what they were arguing about, but-”

“I said she wasn’t an Alpha,” the younger woman snaps, eyes trained on the table even as she spoke, face flushing in what could be shame or regret. “Said she should put her foot down instead of dilly-dallying everywhere she goes, scared of her own shadow.”

“And she did put her foot down, in her own way,” Boyd continues as both the women grow silent. “Started giving us all the strangest orders. ‘No Neon on Sundays.’ ‘No one’s allowed to own combat boots.’ Small things. Stupid things. A few weeks into this she started watching a lot of period dramas, and one day she called us all together and said we had to wear cravats to her funeral.” He chuckles. “I’d never seen her so proud of herself.”

“Except when she figured out how to make orange pudding,” Erica adds in.

There’s the squeal of wood on tile once more, and Stiles spins in his seat to find Hale pulling up a chair. Glancing around the room, he frowns. “Where’d Malia go?”

“She had to take Peter back to the home,” Hale informed him, much to his surprise. “We can only have him out for so long.”

“Hey, remember that time at Coney Island?” Erica inquires suddenly, earning a series of grins.

“Yeah,” Boyd sighs happily. “She ate seven hotdogs and rode every ride, but Derek was the one who puked his guts out.”

“In Argentina, when she came to get me, she almost got herself sacrificed to a fertility god,” Cora adds quietly. Everyone breaks into raucous laughter at this.

“I would pay good money to see that,” Erica admits, hissing a laugh between her teeth.

That’s when Stiles sees it; the smallest shine at the edge of his peripheral vision. He turns, not expecting his breath to freeze in his lungs and the bottom to drop out of his stomach. But there it is. There, trekking slowly down Hale’s face in the crooked, serpentine line, is a steadily waning tear.

His eyes are drawn to the clenched fists in the older man’s lap, knuckles white against dark trousers, and Stiles  wants to say something, but instead finds himself reaching out instinctively under the table, sliding his fingers over the soft skin stretched across the back of Hale’s hand. Slipping them around the curve of Hale’s wrist, he presses his fingers to his pulse. He knows all too vividly how Derek must feel. How sometimes the “I’m sorry”s help, and sometimes all they do is make you angry. How temporary distractions are. How much the nausea in your stomach hurts. How remembering hurts.

He knows how all the new ways of people telling you they know how you feel start sounding emptier and emptier, until you’re in a room filled with people you love but you might as well be alone. Yet sometimes it’s the best thing you’ve heard in months. But mostly you just want people to stop. To take a moment to acknowledge what you have lost and still want to go to the movies or go to the park or do _something. Anything._ Because the distractions help. Simple ones, like movies, or books. Or holding your hand.

The Shifter doesn’t jump at the contact. Doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. Not until his fingers unwound from each other and the digits slipped between Stiles’, dropping their combined hands between their chairs. There they hung, innocent and unaddressed.

For a while, Stiles found it hard to breathe.

...

It’s nearly twenty minutes later that everyone steps out onto the lawn, waiting beneath the bright, blinding sun for the empty hole in the ground to be filled. A few minutes pass before Stiles sees them; Hale and five other pallbearers holding Laura’s coffin aloft. Their steady footsteps are swallowed by the grass, muffled in the dark loamy soil, and nearly silent in the air.

The city seems far away. Honking horns and squealing tires are nowhere to be heard; only the gentle breeze from the open sea and the deep, far off notes of harbor ships.

…

After the service ends, Stiles loads himself into a taxi with Mr. Hale. The seats squeal in protest as he takes a seat, smelling faintly of vomit and disinfectant.

“Where to?” the driver asks; a middle eastern woman whose nameplate reads “Bahijah.”

Stiles rattles off the address when Hale makes no move to reply, glancing over at the man as the car begins to move. “Are you alright,” hovers at the tip of his tongue, but he chokes it back. Of course he’s not alright. His sister is dead. That’s a stupid question. Instead he asks, “Do you need to pick anything up before we get home?”

The man shakes his head solemnly, eyes trained on his feet. His hands clutch the flier from the parlor tightly.

_Laura Jamie Hale_

_December 25th, 1992 – April 23rd, 2016_

_Beloved Sister_

Reaching over cautiously, Stiles reaches over to slide his fingers between the spaces of Hale’s knuckles, leading it away from the crumpled paper of the flier. Their hands twine together as if on instinct. Giving the larger man’s hand a reassuring squeeze, Stiles turns his attention to outside the window, watching the city fly by is a mess of light and people as the driver weaves expertly through traffic.

In his distraction he misses a complex set of expressions flashing across his companion’s face. They flicker between surprise, appreciation, and confusion before repeating. With each set they seemed to warm, the Shifter’s lips turning up at the corners until his eyes crinkled at the corners and his lower lip trembled slightly. And still he stared, face bare of any mask and instead shining with open affection.

As soon as they pulled up to the curb Stiles was tugging at his cravat, complaining about how hot the suit was, as Hale quickly handed over the fee to Bahijah. Stepping out onto the sidewalk is jarring. The cacophony of the city reaches a hand into his head, bashing it, shaking it, and leaving it disoriented for a long, confusing moment. Stiles’ palm, insistent against the dip of his back, is the only thing that propels him towards their tall brick apartment building. After swiping the keycard through the reader the door pops open to let them in with a small buzz. Then they step into the lobby, leaving the sound, the city, and the crumpled sheet of paper with the birth and death date of Laura J. Hale in the back seat of an old yellow taxi.

Just as they get into the lobby, Stiles draws to a stop.

Hale spins, watching the man glance between the elevator and the front door.

“You know what? Go on ahead. I have to grab something,” Stiles tells him, hand aloft and finger extended in what is supposed to be a “continue on” gesture.

Before the older man can open his mouth he’s gone, out the glass door and jogging away from the building. That’s when it creeps back into his stomach; the nauseating weight that fills it to overflowing and spills into his throat. He wants to throw up. He wants to scream. He wants to stop everything and run after the gentle weight in his hand that dares to leave him when he feels like the world is empty except for them.

“Fourth floor, right?” the bellhop calls.

Hale turns, staring at the man in the service elevator with his hands on the dial before slowly nodding.

…

Several minutes later, Stiles peers into the apartment through the slowly opening front door. His eyes rove about the entrance, lingering over the couch and the dining room table before stepping fully into the room. A plastic bag rustles in protest at his elbow as it rubs against the door frame. Finding himself alone, he ventures further into the apartment, door slipping shut behind him. The kitchen is spotless, as it always is; each tool and dish neatly placed in its drawer. Each spice in the rack above the stove in facing forward, clear of residue or grease spatters. After this cursory glance he steps back into the living room, then makes his way down the hall.

He’s surprised to find Hale’s door ajar, stopping in his tracks to stare at it for a long while, unsure how to continue. Should he knock? Call his name? Whistle cheerily and coo, “Here boy?” That’s when he sees it – the smudge of color in the crack of the door. It alarms him to see it, and in seconds he’s easing the door open with his finger, eyeing the lazy puddle of fabric on the floor as it was; an uncharacteristic show of disorder. Sheets rustle, and Stiles’ gaze is drawn to the sight of Hale rising into a sitting position, comforter pooling about his waist to reveal the powerful, toned form of a Wolf Shifter.

Surprising him further, Hale’s mouth drops open and the words, “Did you need something?” slides through his ears like warm honey.

Stiles clears his throat, snapping his arm out to propel the bag into his hand. He holds it aloft with a look of triumph. “I’ve got popcorn and a rented movie. Wanna join me?”

The Shifter looks ready to deny him. To advocate that no, he doesn’t want to watch a movie. That he’s not in the mood to. That his sister just died. But as his nostrils flare his eyebrows draw apart. Surprising him again, Hale asks, “What movie?”

“When Harry Met Neo,” he answers, voice squeaking embarrassingly. What is he? Fifteen?

Nodding almost cordially, Hale shoves his blankets aside to reveal long Under Armor Boxerjocks; the kind Stiles remembers Scott investing in for lacrosse in Junior year. The Shifter’s quick to pull on some pajama pants, hiding all but the bright blue logo up top, and tugs on a tank top as well.

When the man draws closer, Stiles reaches into the bag and presents the movie with a grin. “You put this in. I’ll get the popcorn.” He only lingers long enough to hand off the movie, then starts off in the direction of the kitchen. Pulling a sachet of Kettle corn from the bag, he removes the plastic film and tosses it in the trash, hand snapping up to the microwave to pull it open. The popcorn is then tossed in without much ceremony. His finger hovered over the popcorn button for a long moment after that, not quite sure whether he should push it once or twice. Figuring he was just going to listen for it anyway, he presses it twice.

Inside, a light turns on and the glass wheel begins to turn as the gentle hum of the microwave fills the room.

It’s only when the popping between kernels begins to grow further apart and Stiles’ hand is hovering over the only bright red button on the machine that Hale strides in. He quickly stops the microwave, opening the door partway so he can peck at the bag with his fingers and walk off with it, shaking it with every step. “Mine,” he claims quietly.

For a long moment Stiles stands frozen in place. And when reality slowly comes back to him he goes to follow the older man, expression dark. “Don’t think for one second that you’re not sharing that.”

They settle on opposite sides of the couch, Hale keeping the popcorn firmly between himself and the arm cushion. As the movie starts up – Keanu Reeves narrating his life as an office worker and making friends with his best friend Harry – Stiles asks politely, “Can I have some?”

Hale glances over at him, then tucks the bag of popcorn further beneath his arm.

A demented smiles breaks over the younger man’s face, and he whispers sharply, “I hope you know this means war.”

The Shifter’s only reply is to bite loudly into a large handful of popcorn.

On the movie goes; a delicate balance of car chases and coffee scenes. Until, finally, they reached the climax.

“ _Mr. Anderson,_ ” one of the goons greets, hair slicked away from his face and sunglasses perched intimidatingly on his nose. “ _It has been brought to our attention that you have come in contact with the entity known as ‘Sally.’ You know we cannot allow this._ ”

“ _It doesn’t matter, now. She’s out of the machine_.”

“ _I had hoped it would not come to this,_ ” the agent drawled, snatching his sunglasses off his face.

“ _You’re just a piece of code_ ,” Neo snaps. “ _You can’t hope._ ”

They both retreat into a nearby coffee shop, where they take seats and order scones.

“ _It’s impossible to remain friends in the long run,_ ” the agent warns him. “ _Sex always gets in the way._ ”

Scooching over to the middle cushion, Stiles’ hand shot around the man’s abdomen, desperately grabbing for the bag of popcorn as onscreen Neo advocates, “ _That’s not true._ ”

Hale jerks away, curling over the bag protectively as the agent replies, “ _Oh, but it is, Mr. Anderson. You do not realize it now, but you will in time become aware._ ”

Feinting back into the couch, Stiles waits patiently for the larger man’s arm to come away from the bag, only to lunge forward once more, fingers curling around the edge of the waxed paper. As Hale tears it away it rips wide open, spilling popcorn over the cushions, his lap, and across the floor. Stiles snatches some of the freed kernels up, smashing them into his mouth with a triumphant cry, only to have hands grip his jaw and pry the popcorn from his teeth in a move that is both gentle and forceful. For a long moment after Stiles can only sit in shock as Hale quickly and concisely picks up each and every piece of spilled popcorn from the floor, placing it back inside the ripped bag with a smug, “Five second rule.”

Stiles stares, absolutely befuddled, as Hale leans back into the curve of the couch, smugly popping the very kernel he had liberated from Maw de Stilinski mere seconds before between his own teeth.

“You are so much stranger than I could have ever given you credit until this very moment,” the younger man observes, left eyebrow arching dramatically.

Hale chuckles as Agent Smith and Neo leap from their chairs, engaging in an intense mid-air battle, rising higher and higher as pedestrians pass them by unawares. In the background, an orchestra swells grandly. It’s a while before they slam one another into a street sign, earning a bottled scream from below even as the pedestrians avert their eyes from the scene. And as Stiles feels himself grow bored, it occurs to him to check in, firing off a text to the police department with Hale’s whereabouts.

_At funeral since morning. Movie marathon tonight. Haven’t left side for longer than 10 minutes._

Several minutes later, even as the orchestra grows into a symphony, with trumpets trilling grandly as the sounds of fighting grows steadily more intense, Stiles feels gravity tugging at his eyelids. At first he fights it, eyelashes fluttering madly, but after a while he’s pulled under, dozing off and falling back into the soft incline of the couch back as the screen fades to dark and Harry and Sally crawl into bed.

…

Light is the first thing Stiles can comprehend, filtering through the thin screen of his eyelids like the thin, decorative curtains his mother used to like. (The ones still hanging in his living room because his father couldn’t bear to give them up.) After light is sound. An insistent, fast-paced theme that loops around like a poorly made gif, cutting off at the climax and pausing before resuming once more at the beginning.

There’s a heat in his stomach, radiating sharply in his legs and chest, and the gentle hint of a foreign musk to the air. It originates from the body beside him; large and strong, bracketing him into the back of the couch. The whisper of cloth and sweet kisses lingers in Stiles’ head; the remnants of a dream still drifting through his thoughts. But as his eyes flutter open he’s met with a soft, moist breeze. The harsh scent of morning breath. The slightest of snores. Not three inches in front of him, Hale’s slack, comatose face greets him silently. Their chests are flush together; legs tangled beneath a thin afghan tossed over their legs. Their hands…

He glances down, confused, to find their fingers interlaced, palms flush together, and he recalls suddenly Mr. Hale, standing before the audience of six people and saying all of three lines. Hale, lower lip trembling even as they distributed cupcakes among themselves and waiting to be told the pallbearers had arrived. Hale, laughing and snatching the popcorn up from the floor, grinning smugly as Stiles didn’t manage to get a single kernel throughout the night.

Stiles turns his attention back to the man’s face. His eyes are open, now; an impossible cornucopia of greens and browns and blues that he’s never been able to claim he’s seen up close, and he spends a short instant just observing the golden flecks in the iris. That’s when he first feels it. “It” being a strange, insatiable and physical pull forward, emanating from his gut and resonating soundly in his brain. And before he can make sense of the sudden rush of heat in his stomach he dare call “desire” he’s already lifting his head from the cushion of the couch arm and moving closer to Hale’s face that he thought he’d ever be.

 _I’m straight_ , a little voice proclaims in his head as he settles his ear back against the leather of the couch, sweaty and stiff.

The older man seems surprised by this, eyes growing sharp in the morning light filtering through the windows. His gaze shifts slowly down, then back up to meet Stiles’ with open surprise. Mouth moving ineffectively, he breathes a jittery sigh, which washes over the younger man’s face before Hale can manage an almost gasped, “Morning.”

 _I’m straight_ , the voice continues, a bit shaky this time. Stiles feels himself blink. It’s an almost surreal feeling; being so aware of every motion of his body that the second between the Shifter’s utterance and his reply stretches like a piano wire, winding tighter and tighter around the tuning pick. “Morning,” he replies, voice inaudible even to him.

And yet Hale seems to have heard it, trapped in his lungs and throat as it is. “May I kiss you?” His voice drifts softly through the space between them, quivering in the morning air.

 _I’m straight_ , the voice protests one last time, having grown so small it was nearly lost in the cacophony of Stiles’ mind as he whispers, “Yes.”

A puff of air rushes past his nose; an inward gasp dragging through the older man’s mouth, chest pressing insistently into Stiles’ as the word registers. Again, silence falls between them. But this time it has been filled with the smallest of insignificant movements as Hale inches slowly forward.

Stiles doesn’t know what to expect, mind stuck somewhere in the headspace of waking up and the impossibility of the situation. But as his eyes slip closed he figures he knows exactly what’s coming his way. A hard press of lips; hands clinging to his hips; a warm leg insistently pressing between his. So lost is he in his expectations that the barest brush of skin against the tip of his nose startles him. His eyes fly open, staring in utter shock at the nervous man before him.

Arms and legs shaking visibly, Hale drags his nose along the bridge of Stiles’ face, tracing it up until it drags oh so lightly across the skin of his forehead. And there, once he has reached the hairline, he presses warm, chapped lips to the pale expanse he finds there. Only as the man settled in the seam of the couch stares up at him, curiosity plain on his face, does the tension leak from his body. Lips quirking shyly upwards, he requests quietly, “May I kiss you again?”

The heartbeat that had been ever present grows to overwhelming as Stiles hisses a long, nervous breath through his teeth, lungs stuttering as he murmured a meek, almost terrified, “Yes.” It cracked and squeaked, fluttering in the air between them like a delicate, actively crumbling disaster.

Lips curling upwards, Hale breathed a happy, relieved laugh as his legs slid against the cushions, leather moaning in protest as he slid slowly down the couch. Meeting the younger man’s eyes dead on, he pressed their foreheads together, each of them damp with a cold. nervous sweat. “Would you close your eyes?”

The request is met instantly with the lowering of short, thick lashes; shadow heavy against Stiles’ pale cheeks.

The man takes another short breath, steeling his courage before he begins to breach the distance between them. His own eyes flutter shut with the strangest, oddly pervasive sense of finality that seems to silence the sounds of the city that filter in from the walls. The neighbor two doors over drops their mug of coffee. The woman on the eleventh floor hums along to opera as her dog rumbles contentedly in time with the coloratura’s vibrato. The bellhop curses loudly at his phone as a small italian plumber runs into a mushroom. All of this falls into nothing; an odd, temporary peace that fills him up but leaves him aching for some sensation to fill it.

As their lips brush, chapped and foul from sleep, he fights the urge to cry. There’s a thunder in his chest; a quake in his hands. It shakes him from the inside out as if he cannot contain the sensation as it boils from his very skin, filling him up and breaking him down to the barest of components.

Stiles is faring no better. His hands are trapped between their chests and the inhospitable leather of the couch cushions, sandwiched from their slumber and left to vibrate with nothing to grip. His toes have begun to tingle oddly, as have his fingers and his nose. With each stuttered breath he becomes more aware of the gentle brush of lips against his. The heat pressed against his front. The steady, deep breathes bursting from the older man’s nose to flow over his cheek. And, for the first time in a long while, Stiles’ mind screeches to a stop.

For four blissful seconds there’s nothing but the lips against his, soft and sweet and moving ever-so-slowly against his. Fingers tracing the line of his jaw as if he might shatter if he were gripped. Feet drawing a line up his ankle below the slacks he’d been loaned, tickling the hair along his leg. A beard, freshly trimmed and prickly against the sensitive skin of his face, scraping and grating and altogether far too sharp to be enjoyed quite as much as Stiles does in these four short, blissful seconds.

And as Mr. Hale pulls away, thumb tracing the smallest of circles against the smaller man’s jaw, those four seconds come to an abrupt and terrifying end. The piano wire moment, strung taut, snaps with a violent but silent crack.

Shoving the Shifter’s arms forcefully away, Stiles leaps to his feet, staggering toward the front door with grim purpose.

“Where are you going?” Hale asks, alarmed. He’s at his roommate’s side in an instant, face distressingly open as he tugs his pajamas neatly into place. “I – I didn’t expect you to react like this.”

“I’m not reactive like anything,” he denies sharply, shoving his feet harshly into his sneakers. “I’m just going out for some cocoa. Nothing to see here.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m being weird?” The younger man scoffs derisively. “You’re being weird. You’re the one who barely opens his mouth for all that we live together, and then one day decides he wants to kiss me. You’re even saying entire sentences. You’re the one being weird.”

“I’m not being…” Trailing off with a flush, the Shifter stares wide-eyed at the man before him and confesses quietly in a desperate, quavering utter, “I like you.”

Stiles freezes in place, feet half in his sneaker and refusing to meet the man’s eyes. “We’ll talk about this when I get back,” he decides for the both of them. “When neither of us are wearing clothes from your sister’s funeral.”

Hale seems about to protest, but just as he’s about to speak his mouth clicks shut and his face closes off. Then he nods solemnly, taking a step away from the man before him.

In the silence of the apartment, filled only by the looped music of the movie’s menu, it feels just as final as the kiss.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” Stiles promises, hand landing on the door knob and letting himself out of the apartment. By the time he’s made sense of where he’s going, his feet are taking him downtown, hitting the pavement with grim determination, glancing behind him every so often as he can’t shake the strange sensation that he’s being watched. He doesn’t take the bus. He’s too wound up – too stretched and cropped and resized and rewritten to fit inside his own skin, having so much change in the process that every shift of weight from leg to leg feels like he’s taking steps for the first time.

He’s only a block away from Café Shifter when he feels it – a sharp slash against the back of his neck. Spinning sharply, he faces his assailant with grim determination, only for his balance to fail him. Betrayed by gravity, he falls, head landing solidly against the ground in a sick and echoing crack.


	6. Sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Arnaud and Oliver, who edited and made themselves available for me to pick their brains when I had this brilliant idea to delete all 4k of what I had done and rewrite it entirely three days before the post date. As such, the time frame of certain events have fluctuated, characters have been relocated, and an end-game pairing has been removed entirely. Things I promised for this chapter will be happening in the next chapter. Thanks also to Malaproprian for being a last-minute consultant for very weird questions.

Upside-down and sideways, head tied in knots and arms locked behind a kaleidoscope of sensations, Stiles fights against a rising tide of panic as the barest hints of light crash into his eyes. From the tips of his fingers to the balls of his feet is an omnipresent fuzz. It stuffs his elbows and knees. Dams his mouth and nose. And as he rocks to and fro, sandwiched between the rails of a small, cold boat, he begins to realize the reality of his situation.

The literal reality of his situation.

The fuzz is a weakness, racing beneath his skin like a thousand beetles. While his brain is knotted, it is only with singularities as it blares angrily at him its displeasure. His mouth and nose are obscured by nothing but his own thoughts, and it takes a desperate breath to clear them. And finally, the boat is no boat at all. The rails are arms; the boards a chest. Their skin is cold to the touch and unsteady in a confident swagger that leaves Stiles’ stomach churning.

As the air passes loudly through the man’s lips, the body above him draws to a pause.

 _“Wh… that?”_ The voice is distant; twisted by the air and Stiles’ own traitorous brain.

Stiles struggles to get another breath in, eyes clenching shut against the barest of glints of light in the distance. But even this isn’t enough as it reaches past his eyelids and hollows out his brain.

Louder, angrier, the voice hisses, _“Is he breathing?”_

Stale and acidic, the air burns as he gasps needily. Makes his head spin and jump and scream as it gets what it needs but drowns in the scents that come with it. Urine. Gasoline. Vomit. Rancid sweat.

Everything idles from side to side. But no; that’s the body beneath him, shifting uneasily as the twisting voice seethes.

_“You… poison… just let… fall on… head. If… problems… on you.”_

The boat – body – eases forward again, the light falling on the lids of Stiles’ eyes shrinking to a trickle as a large, looming shadow obscures it. He sighs in relief, limbs sagging in the cage of limbs that bracket his arms and legs. For all of an instant there’s an unusual pressure against his stomach, but it eases quickly, falling away from his hoodie and crashing to the ground with a great clatter.

Again, the body freezes.

There are footsteps. Long, hollow ones that echo through what Stiles can only guess is an alley, and he strains to open his eyes as the second figure speaks.

 _“This is…”_ they manage before a great crack and the squeal of rubber on glass. Of the hollow stomp of a boot slamming over and over into a small device, piercing the air with the whine of a shattering screen.

Stiles doesn’t bother fighting another wave of anxiety as he realizes the person is stomping on his phone.

 _“How long has that been on?”_ the figure hisses.

The world heaves angrily in a shrug that nearly upends Stiles’ stomach onto his legs.

 _“How. Long. Has. That. Been. On?”_ they hiss again, anger draining from their voice. Instead, they sound disappointed. Disappointed in a quiet, restrained sort of way that makes Stiles’ lungs constrict fearfully in his chest. Disappointed in a way that promises things far worse than anger could ever imagine. _“Set him down. Hold his hair.”_

Pitching on its end, what Stiles can make out of the world blurs and swirls before his eyes, and he clenches his teeth against the urge to vomit. Long, thin fingers slide into his hair, gripping it cruelly to tear his head back. They twist sharply, forcing him to stare up at a vaguely human shape through a thick line of tears, and the motion brings a bit of startling clarity. There’s a whisper of scales against his scalp. Above him eyes burn like coals against a face draped in shadows.

His face snaps to the side, jaw aching and cheek screaming as the second figure bears down on him with breath nearly pungent with mint.

_“How… has… on?”_

Whatever clarity he’d had is gone, lost to the throbbing mess of his face as his stomach gives one last rebellion before bubbling up past his lips, spilling into the alley.

There’s an exasperated sigh, and fingers grip his chin, forcing his face up. _“Now look what you’ve done; you’ve ruined my shoes. That’s not very nice.”_

Retrospect takes all of two seconds to kick in after Stiles sucks on his tongue, blood congealing with vomit and saliva, and spits. He shouldn’t be surprised by the fist that pops against the bridge of his nose, or the subsequent snap that follows. He hears it in his ears and in his throat and on his tongue; his nose breaking quickly beneath a blow too precise to be lucky. Jaw dropping open, a scream buds at the back of his throat, but all that emerges is the softest of whimpers.

_“Consider… fortunate.”_

The pavement is cool against his face; a welcome respite from the way his body seems to burn from the inside out. Sky dancing madly, walls singing songs, Stiles only has the presence of mind to be grateful he hadn’t fallen in his vomit as sirens sound in the distance. Before long he’s being lifted and rolled and turned and moved and he doesn’t want this. First he wants everything to stop moving. Then he wants them to stop screaming. Last, he wants the pounding of a drum that’s trapped in his head to subside.

And, after a while, they do.

…

“... luckiest butt dial I have ever seen.”

Glancing away from the dashboard, Stiles blinks blearily up at the woman in the driver’s seat, NYPD blues bright against the stark interior of the cruiser, only to turn his attention back to the glove box with a groan. “Thi’k ‘m gon’ puke,” he warns his companion miserably.

“At least… out the… first,” she warns him seriously, fingers sliding confidently away from the steering wheel to prod at the control panel.

Beside him, the door buzzes faintly as the window slides open, admitting a cornucopia of nauseating scents and sounds that slam into Stiles with all the delicacy of a mallet. “ _Roll it up, roll it up, roll it up,_ ” he insists quickly, slapping his hands over his mouth with a long, drawn out groan. A shocked whine slips from him as he nudges his nose, the cast bobbing just enough to irritate the skin.

She glances over, meticulously tweezed eyebrows drawing together curiously. “Didn’t you… twice… hospital? How… stomach… Concussions...”

Jolting to the side, the cruiser whines for a second before popping back up on the road, heaving back into place as Stiles grips the Oh Shit handle for dear life. As the car draws to an abrupt stop, the window rolls back up.

“Thank you,” Stiles gasps lowly, heart thundering painfully against his ribcage.

“... problem,” the officer tells him. “Now, the… strictly at night…”

Settling his hands back on the dashboard, the man ducks down to sandwich his face between his arms. The light is almost tolerable in this position. It’s softer, and mostly weaves itself into aborted lines along the carpet.

“Talk… more inside.”

A horn honks, and three sound in reply. The outline of two pigeons pass through the lines on the floor. In the distance is the song of a bell, ringing politely for what Stiles can only imagine is mass. It doesn’t pierce him. Doesn’t assault him like everything else had. He recalls what he could make out of what the nurse told him – that head injuries were unpredictable and he could get better in small increments or large increments at any time. (And that he should call them if at any point he feels a pressure, or abnormalities in his headache.) He thinks about this for a while. Too long, maybe, as a hand settles on his shoulder and the world tilts.

But the world doesn’t tilt. He’s tilted. His arms are bracketed above his head, and his hip is jammed into the center console. For a brief, all too real moment his world was nothing but blind terror racing through every limb.

“Stiles?”

The man glances up, attention drawn to the lithe, familiar face. At the big brown eyes staring curiously down at him and the hands propped delicately against the cruiser roof. “Yeah?” he manages weakly, throat thick with residual fear.

“You are going to need so much therapy after this.”

…

“And you’re sure there were two people?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you have a concussion?”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t describe either of them?”

“Ye – no. Don’t…” Stiles groans, leaning forward to rest his head between his hands. Overhead, fluorescent lights glare angrily down into the room, glancing off of a wide two-way mirror, two worn aluminum chairs, and a table polished to the point of blinding the man as he looks away from the officer. He turns his eyes back on the man.

Pale hair, tanned skin, and a smirk too good for shit. Across his chest is a brightly embroidered, “Dunbar.”

“Officer Dunbar, one of them had scales.”

“Yeah, and I’m the tooth fairy.”

Stiles’ mouth pops open in a confused “o” before he scoffs incredulously. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going for?” he drawls angrily. “Derision? I expected more from the NYPD.” Turning his head as quickly as he can without vomiting, he stares straight into the center of the mirror and requests, “Can I get a different interrogator please?”

“You get me or you don’t get anyone,” Officer Dunbar sneers, teeth bared.

“See this moment?” Holding a finger up, Stiles motions candidly around the room. “The one with the information you need? It’s flying away, like a small, handicapped butterfly that _hates you_.”

“Then how about you tell me what really happened?” the officer oozes viscously. “Because all I’ve been hearing is a bunch of bullshit about a giant lizard and a dude with mint gum.”

“And I’m telling you there were two people. One was quiet and had scales. The other one I’m pretty sure was white and had a mean right hook. That’s all I got.”

“There’s no such thing as a reptilian Shifter,” the officer insists tartly.

Stiles attempts to roll his eyes, but groans and thinks better of it as his head begins to split anew. Blinking away a fresh set of tears, he shrugs lightly. “Last time I checked, Party City still sold Godzilla onesies.” He pauses, slowly glancing over at the mirror on the wall as a small chuckle filters through the glass. Turning his attention back to Officer Dunbar, he pushes up his sleeves and rises to his feet. “A testimony is a testimony, dude. Take it or leave it.”

Shooting up out of his chair, Dunbar irritably squawks, “We’re not through here.”

“I puked on his shoes, if that helps,” Stiles adds as he walks slowly out the door. “Right before he broke my nose.”

As the door’s hydraulics hiss in his wake, before him lies a confusing dance of what he knows from hours spent in the station back in California is very far from order. In fact, it’s absolute mayhem. It’s not so much the dozens of phones erupting violently or the officers running about, swerving around each other and – occasionally – slamming into walls with an armload of papers; it’s the secretary that has run past him, pushing before her a large industrial serving tray filled to the brim with black coffee. It clicks and jolts quickly down the row, slowing only before the occasional officer, quickly handing out mugs of something almost rancid. Something the man knows upon first whiff is really “good” station coffee.

Stiles can hear Officer Dunbar behind him, approaching with heavy, angry steps before a hand reaches around him. He jumps away, heart hammering up his chest and into his throat as he plasters himself to the opposite wall. It’s the officer from the car, NYPD blues dark against fair skin. She drags the door shut, fingers deftly clicking the lock into place before she turns to him with a grimace. “Sorry, I should have warned you I was behind you.”

“I…” Glancing from the door, to the woman, and then around them at the station full of NYPD that fail to notice one of their own locking another officer in a secure room, he raises his hand nervously in greeting. “Hi again.”

“You might want to take a few days off of school to recover, you know,” she suggests sweetly. “Maybe a week. And it’d be a good idea to get some therapy when you’re ready.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Behind the Officer, the door rattles angrily.

Stiles jumps, retreating further against the wall. For a while he literally attempts to become one with plaster and faded blue paint. This, obviously, does not pan out quite as well as he hopes.

“-anyone who can pick you up?”

The man blinks, glancing between the door and the officer warily before he realizes suddenly she had asked him something. “Could, uh… Could you repeat that?” His eyes shoot to the embroidered name on her shirt – Yukimura – before trailing back up to meet her eyes.

“Do you have anyone to pick you up?” she replies patiently. “You know – to take you home?”

He stares at her for a long, tense moment as the door rattles again. Then, jerking his thumb in the direction of the station’s foyer, the man mumbles, “I was just going to take the bus.”

“No, no, no,” Officer Yukimura denies quickly. “You are not taking the bus with a concussion. I’m driving you.”

Stiles frowns. “Are you allowed to do that?”

She nods happily, eyes crinkling with amusement. “On my own time, yes,” she informs him cheerfully.

“In the cruiser?”

The woman waves him off, then steps into the mess. “No, in my car. I’m off in five minutes. Come on – this way.” Hopping down the hall, she waves for the man to follow, leading him into a wide room with ample chairs and dim lighting. “I’ve just got to change. Take a seat.”

Stiles stares after her as she leaves, eyes trailing the line of her shoulders and back. A personal car? In _New York_? Was she crazy? Was she crazy _rich_? How could she afford it on an NYPD salary?

He spends a long time thinking about this, but decides to forget it when his head begins to spin, no doubt angry at him for thinking.

…

He is far from disappointed.

Officer Yukimura’s car is… interesting.

There are no consistent symbols or logos on the hood or trunk, and the doors don’t make a clean line from front to back. It’s almost as if they had been welded on in a fit of anger, sitting lopsided on their bolts. Each part is a different color, with one door a matted mess of rust and baby barf green, while another is bright silver. The car itself is orange, to an extent, with purple stripes leading over the top from one license plate to the other, interrupted only by a bright red trunk.

“What kind of car is that?” It’s out before Stiles can stop it; a mildly disturbed cluster of words that both admonish and admire simultaneously.

“This is Mon-Mon,” Officer Yukimura tells him, patting the roof with a wide grin. It clangs angrily, as if threatening to fall apart, but the sound fades after a moment that lasts a touch too long. “He used to be a blue Honda, but I let my cousin Frankie loose on him two years ago. Some of the new parts don’t even have serial numbers. Haven’t had any problems since.”

It takes longer than it should for Stiles to get up the courage to step into… Mon-Mon. But as soon as the woman starts it up he’s pleasantly surprised when they don’t explode. “Oh,” he mumbles amusedly.

“Where to?”

He rambles off the address, pulling the seat belt over his chest with a wide grin. But as they pull out of the parking lot it falls from his face, dropping into open shock as his eyes land on a congregation of people out front of the station. “What’s-”

One moment people are chanting, “This isn’t safety; it’s attack! Give our friends and family back!” The next they’re screaming, and the street has burst into a cloud of yellow smog.

“Don’t roll down your window,” Officer Yukimura tells him quickly, reaching forward to set the air conditioning on closed circuit before turning down onto the street. “It’s mustard gas.”

“What the hell?” Stiles gapes. “Why the hell is there mustard gas?”

“Three Shifters were arrested for non-compliance with the collar program. Their friends and families have been protesting for weeks.”

The man gaped, eyes narrowing angrily. “Why hasn’t his been on the news? It’s all been traffic backups and the weather in Ohio for weeks.”

As she led the car into a sharp, quick turn, Officer Yukimura was quiet only a short moment before bleakly informing him, “Shifters don’t make the news unless they kill someone, Stiles.”

Then, from the depths of her purse, there came a mournful Latin chant.

Snatching a phone from her purse, the woman snorts before setting it on the dash and placing it on speakerphone. “Kira Yukimura,” she sing-songs.

 _“Yukimura, this is Chief Inspector Morell,”_ a woman announces dryly.

“Ah, hello Chief Inspector.”

_“Yukimura, mind telling me why you locked Officer Dunbar in the interrogation room?”_

“Of course, Ma’am. He jeopardized the investigation by antagonizing and undermining the sole witness.” Her hands slide expertly on the wheel, guiding them around a large trash can that had been pushed into the road. “I thought it best to separate them.”

_“And you’re with him now?”_

“Giving him a ride home, Ma’am.”

_“Good. Make sure to take some notes, okay?”_

“Will do.”

Clicking twice, the phone bemoans the disconnection with a long, tasteful wail before Kira ends the call with a smile.

Stiles blinks, shocked. “That is a very lax Chief Inspector.”

“I’m a special exception,” the woman coos, slowing to a stop before a red light. “Saved her life, once. We were out on a run in the Bronx late one night. Long story short, shots were fired. I got her to the ground, but ended up with this baby in the process.” Hand dropping down from the wheel, she knocks twice on her right leg, which gives a hollow click in reply.

Against his will, the man feels his eyes drifting to the appendage. It’s thinner than the left one; the material of the woman’s slacks draping softly around the curve of the artificial leg, tapering gracefully at the knee before falling out of view. “It’s fake?”

“Artificial,” she corrects. “Not fake. I can run and jump just as well as the next officer, thanks. Now, is there anywhere else you need to go before I take you home?”

…

Despite the early hour, the closest parking spot was five blocks away.

Stiles stumbles out of Mon-Mon with a grimace, eyeing the rusty door suspiciously as he slams it shut. The car whines, shifting a bit on its wheels before settling precariously back into place. Looking at it, it was hard to believe he’d just been inside the thing. That it had been an easy, unnaturally smooth ride. One that left him a bit unnerved. Maybe there was a small team of very short sorcerers beneath the hood keeping the thing running with black magic or animal sacrifices. How was he to know? But despite his unease, he turns to the sidewalk with grim determination. Already the street is cluttered with people. Despite their density, they roll around him like a particularly polite stream.

It must be my face, he realizes, meeting the occasional disturbed gaze that landed on his swollen cheek, bruised eyes, and the bandage wrapped tight about his head.

Hopping up onto the sidewalk, Kira smiles. “Ready to go?”

Glancing down at her, Stiles nods before stepping up to the meter to load a few quarters into it. Then they’re off, making their way down the street with a certain amount of caution. It takes them a few minutes to reach a familiar wall of glass. The crowds pause at every intersection, and the lights are slow to turn. But eventually they’re pushing open a familiar door, and a small bell jingles three times upon their arrival.

Erica gapes. “Oh my god, what happened to your _face_?”

“Some cocoa would be great, thanks,” Stiles deadpans in reply, grinning sarcastically before stepping over to a free table.

“I’ll just take my usual, Erica. Put it on my tab,” Kira orders as well, taking the open seat beside the man.

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. “You have a tab?”

“Of course,” she replies happily. “This is the only place in town with a good cup of Joe.”

Two mugs settle before them, pale, painted fingernails tapping the glasses casually toward the respective owners. “Remember to return these,” Isaac tells them simply before retreating back behind the counter.

“Thanks, Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” Stiles asks as the man walks away.

“Oh, that’s ‘cause he’s from California. And ‘cause of his hair, you know? It’s so bright.” She beams. “And his smile.”

Stiles glances over at the man in question, observing a bit too carefully the practiced grimace that falls over his face as a customer walks in. “Sure you’re just here for the coffee?”

Kira ducks her head, flush high on her cheeks. “So, uh…” The woman clears her throat. “What’s the first order of business?” she suggests. “Therapy? Break from school? Yoga class?”

“New phone,” Stiles corrects with a raise of his eyebrow, sipping contentedly from his mug. “Whoever nabbed me stomped on it. It’s just a lump of rubble, now.”

Snagging a napkin from the table centerpiece, Kira’s fingers curl around a small pen that she tugs from her jacket pocket. “Speaking of which, mind giving me a play by play of the events last night? I promise not to give you a hard time like Liam.”

“Liam?”

“Officer Dunbar.”

“Nice name for a douchebag.”

“Isn’t it?” she giggles. “Now, can you tell me what you did yesterday evening?”

Stiles leans back in his chair and sighs, recounting the events as he recalls them. From watching When Harry Met Neo with Mr. Hale to hitting the concrete in a hazy mess of blurring light and sounds. The alley that smelled like trash. The eyes burning like coals waiting to sear through his face.

“Huh,” Kira breathes as he finishes, nodding curiously as she turns the napkin over to continue her neat, clustered notes. “Red eyes?”

“Red eyes.”

“And your roommate, Derek – he’s registered to have blue eyes. Is that correct?”

To Stiles it feels as if the world needs to stop, cups half-brewed, birds mid-flight, as if God had lost the remote in the couch and sat on it. But the steady buzz of conversation continues. The bustle of Erica and Isaac working in the enclosure continues. Cappuccino machines and phones and the bell above the door whirr and buzz and jingle when they should be _stopping_ but they just _continue_. It’s too loud and too fast and too much. “What?” he manages after a while, setting his mug on the table with wide, open eyes.

“Your roommate,” Kira repeats diligently, gaze fixed on the napkin in her hands, oblivious to the man’s shock. “Derek Hale. While in human form they’re Green with a Heterochroma of Hazel, but when he shifts – or is partially shifted – they’re blue. That hasn’t changed after his sister’s death, has it? They’re still blue?”

“I…” Stiles’ throat closes up for a second that stretches far too long.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Isaac leans over the counter to hand a customer their coffee, and Stiles’ eyes are drawn to it almost on instinct. Then the man turns, meeting his eyes with a steady, hard gaze, and nods.

And the world continues.

“Yeah,” he mutters quietly. “They’re still blue.”

“That’s _great_ news,” Kira enthuses, voice low, jotting it down. “This seriously narrows down who the Kanima is.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rise curiously. “Kanima?”

The woman’s hand stops. Glancing up from her napkin, she shrugs candidly before turning her attention back down. “What about it?”

“What’s a Kanima?” Stiles asks.

“It’s the thing that’s been killing Shifters around Flushing. Don’t you watch the news?”

“That wasn’t in the news.”

Kira opens and closes her mouth several times before her jaw slides shut with a decisive click. Folding the napkin into thirds, she rises from her seat and places it in her pocket. “Look at the time. Let’s get you home, shall we?”

“Are you telling me I was attacked by a _serial killer_?” Stiles hisses skeptically.

Meeting his eyes, the woman shakes her head quickly. “Stiles, as much as I would like to continue this conversation, I would really like to not get _fired_ , okay? So drop it or take the bus home.” Shooting to her feet, she mutters sadly, “You have five minutes,” before walking out of the shop. But the bell doesn’t ring as she leaves; remaining utterly silent in her wake.

Stiles frowns, staring down into the mug she’d left sitting on the table. “At least take your coffee back,” he drawls, reaching for it.

“Don’t touch that,” Erica insists, racing around the counter and slapping the man’s hand away. “Humans should not touch this cup.”

He blows an ineffective raspberry. “Didn’t stop Kira.”

“Kira’s… Kira’s special,” Erica settles on after a moment. “She’s… not _exactly_ human. Not completely.”

“What do you mean not ‘exactly’ human?” he snaps, fingers coming up to bracket the word.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you asked?”

“That’s the thing,” she mumbles, eyes flicking out to follow the woman through the glass. “I’m not even sure she knows.”

Silence settles between them, comfortably filling the cracks of their conversation until it falls into the background. But before the man can raise his voice in farewell, Erica insists suddenly, “But seriously, though – what happened to your _face_?”

Stiles leaves without another word.

…

The remainder of their ride to the apartment consists of Stiles messing with the radio every time commercials come on. Mon-Mon’s speakers are surprisingly good, if a bit tinny, and it sounds increasingly pleasant when Kira hums along under her breath. Before either of them know it, they’re complaining about DJs and 90’s Pop. By the time she draws to a stop beside the large, brick building in which he lives they’ve bonded over their mutual dislike of electric guitars and Jelly Bellies.

“It’s been a scream,” Stiles tells her jokingly, leaning in through the window with the widest grin he can manage.

“Try not to get yourself nearly killed again, okay?” the woman warns him as he pulls away. “I should only see you when you’re at Café Shifter. And don’t be a stranger.”

As the window rolls up, groaning and buzzing as it struggles to close, Stiles waves. “Will do. Bye, Kira.”

She waves goodbye, but as she pulls the wheel to the side in preparation to drive away, she rolls the window down again and calls out,“Remember; you’re not allowed to sleep for another four hours.” And with this last reminder Mon-Mon peels away from the pavement, merging effortlessly with traffic and disappearing around a corner.

Pulling the prepaid phone he’d gotten from a convenience store from his pocket, Stiles slides his keycard through the scanner at the door as he types in a number. Pressing it to his ear, the man sighs. He steps into the building with a grimace as it dials loudly. For a few long seconds to follow he fumbles with it, pressing random buttons until the volume is down as low as it will go before plastering the device angrily to the side of his face.

_“-ello?”_

“Hey, Allison,” he greets warmly. “It’s Stiles. Sorry about that. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” Stepping up to the service elevator, he presses call button insistently.

 _“Stiles?”_ There’s a bit of shuffling, and a hollow echo of metal on wood. _“I didn’t recognize the number. What’s going on? You sound kind of sick.”_

Reaching up to brush his fingers lightly at the end of the cast of his nose, the man shrugs nervously to himself. “New phone. Look, I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to school for a while. I was wondering if maybe you could do me a huge favor and get one of my papers to my English teacher. She doesn’t accept digital copies.”

_“Sure, no-”_

“Hey,” a strange voice begins as a foreign hand falls on Stiles’ shoulder.

The world tilts, screams, _jerks_ to the side and suddenly Stiles is on the floor, staring up at a man he doesn’t know with a long beard and grey eyes. His head is pounding again; throbbing angrily where it’s collided with the elevator grate.

Mouth falling open for a short second, the man closes it, then opens it again. “The elevators are fixed,” he informs Stiles simply, politely keeping any further comments to himself. His finger motions to the set of brushed steel doors off to the side of the room. Then, tugging idly at his belt, the man glances around the lobby and adds, “Have a, uh, good one,” before striding quickly through the glass door.

It closes with a hiss of hydraulics, and the gentle hum and click of a lock engaging. After that the foyer is empty; the sound of Stiles’ rushed, anxious breaths filling it up and leaving no space to think or move or speak. But eventually it slows. His head is a mess of energy and exhaustion, but he stumbles toward the elevators all the same.

_“Stiles! Stiles are you okay?!”_

As he presses the call button for the elevator, the man brings the phone up to his ear again. “I’m fine,” he insists weakly. “Just startled.”

She scoffs angrily. _“Stiles, that didn’t sound like you were startled. That sound like-”_

“I know what it sounded like, okay? I was there. Just a few seconds ago. Just… drop it, okay?” His mouth screws up at this, both angry and sad. And when she replies it is replaced instantly with guilt.

 _“I’ll see you tomorrow.”_ Her voice is small, hesitant, and – behind these, hiding in the deepest tones and buried beneath years of sincere words of encouragement and affection – angry.

“Tomorrow,” Stiles promises bleakly, then ends the call. Stepping into the elevator, he collapses against the far wall, staring at the mirrors all around him. He sees for the first time the blooming of color beneath his cheeks and jaw. The purple tones that might as well have been tattooed all across his brow bone and forehead. Even along the insides of his eyes. The strange, healing slash along the back of his neck, riddled with stitches visible even through the gauze, the pad probably lost to the depths of New York (or Mon-Mon’s seat.)

The cast on his nose is a bright neon green; no doubt to detract attention from the rest of his face. For Stiles, though, it just made it all more noticeable. Almost made him look alien. Then, to make matters worse, the metaphorical icing on the cake was a long, white, sterile bandage that threw it all into stark relief: the purples and reds and greens. It wrapped about his head, around his hair, like a medical-grade beanie. He imagines for a second that it’s keeping all his brains inside.

And that’s when he decides to stop thinking.

Leaning forward, he presses the button for floor four.

The ride up to the apartment is longer than he feels it should be, considering it’s only four floors, as opposed to eleven. And he allows himself a moment to daydream about the car stalling, like it had so many months before, and thinks for a moment that maybe he could turn it around this time. He could avoid whatever conclusion this ride was headed towards.

But there is no great conclusion today. The conclusion has already been come to. There are no more surprises to be had; no more adventures to be lived; no more people to meet or greet or please.

It is seven in the morning and Stiles’ day has come to an end.


	7. In the Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Life, four finger injuries, a light-sensitivity migraine, and diabetic complications happened. I should just let it be known right now, as you are all probably realizing this; I have very terrible luck. (For those wondering about why they talk about Laura in the present tense, [I tend to get obscure lines from songs stuck in my head.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spad-NyE2HU))

Stepping back into the apartment feels like an achievement of some sort. The prize is nothing tangible. At least, not something Stiles can touch with his hands. It’s an extra blip between beats of his heart. The hollow reverberation of his footstep as he eases onto the hardwood floors. A song floats from the TV screen, cutting abruptly short as Mr. Hale – no, Derek – rises from the couch, remote in hand, eyes wide and red-rimmed and confused as his gaze rakes over the bruises littering the familiar face in his entryway.

Stiles’ lips twitch up in a half-grin as he shrugs nervously with one shoulder. “Walk took longer than I thought.” His voice shakes, but it grows stronger as the older man takes a cursory step around the couch. “It’s probably for the best that you don’t make any sudden moves, or come up behind me, for a while.”

The Shifter’s mouth hangs open for a long second as the younger man makes his way across the living room, heading purposely toward the hallway. “Are you-”

He throws his hands up, as if they might be capable of erecting a forcefield to block out any words or objects headed his way, earning a shocked silence. “Look, Derek,” he begins lowly, eliciting the smallest of flinches, “I really can’t handle anything else today, okay? It’s barely seven in the morning and I’ve been fielding questions ever since I got out of the hospital. So before you ask, no. No, I am not okay. And I’m not going to be okay for a while. So if you could please keep that in mind for the next few weeks that would be… great.” For a moment he struggles to get the last word out, squeaking and choking around the swelling lump in his throat. “Just do that thing you did when I first moved in; the no talking bit. I should be…”

Silence settles over the room; heavy and instant and filled only with the far-off wail of a siren as the air anxiously hums with “fine.”

Derek’s jaw drops open, as if to protest, but it slips shut after a moment, eyes narrowing sadly as he watches the younger man’s shoulders shake infinitesimally. His gaze lingers slowly on the pale, drawn cheeks. Sunken eyes. Painful draws of breath that shiver in the air. There’s a flicker of something solid in his gaze; a decision. And as it takes hold his hands reach down, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt to pull it off in one swift moment and lean forward with a grunt. His shoulders hunch, and in seconds they’re popping and squealing; arms shivering in the morning light as they shrink and contort.

Peering over the couch in open shock, Stiles watches as fur bursts from the Shifter’s back and loose pants and underwear slide to the floor as a wolf takes shape in the living room.

It’s nothing grand or significant. Nothing like the films make it out to be. There are no howls to the moon or grotesque twists of bone rearranging beneath flesh. It is simply Hale leaning forward, shoulders popping into place, fur bursting from his skin as if it belongs there, clothes tumbling – untorn – to the floor. From a crack in the curtains flickers the beginning of sunlight, climbing above the skyline to peer in the window, falling across the back of the large, dark bundle of fur shaking itself before the couch. And as Stiles rounds the curve of the arm, he sees Derek before him – furry, cute Derek – staring up at him with bright, shining blue eyes, a streak of sunlight against his side.

Falling to his knees, the younger man buries his fingers in the Shifter’s warm, soft fur, settles his face in the curve of its neck, and breathes.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” Stiles manages to whine as the Shifter moves to nuzzle his neck, when his eyes have finally dried and the throbbing in his head isn’t nearly as violent.

The only answer is a wet nose prodding his cheek, and a damp tongue flicking comfortingly across the bottom of his chin.

After a while they end up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV and arms wound in soft, dark fur.

…

Dragging its metaphorical feet and moaning and complaining to a nonexistent audience of three, the day passes slowly, though most arduously. It fades into night with naught to show for it but a handful of e-mails to professors and a whispered insistence that Stiles should go to sleep soon. And when the next morning blooms hesitantly across the living room in a flourish of gold, speckled with silver specks of light drifting slowly to the floor, the man has not moved. He remains anchored to the couch with his eyes wide and his hands trembling.

On screen an animated cast of Japanese cowboys and cowgirls argue about their youngest charge, who’d possessed their ship and turned them off course.

Then the television goes blank.

Stiles turns his attention blearily to the man above him, blinking away a night’s worth of staring. “Morning.”

Above him, Derek lowers the remote, settling it on the coffee table with a series of clicks. Then he turns; stares at him for a long, oddly relaxed moment before breathing a slow, long sigh out his nose. “I thought I told you to get some sleep,” he reminds the younger man lowly.

Dragging the tan couch blanket further around his shoulders, Stiles shrugs. “Wasn’t tired.”

“Wasn’t tired,” the older man parrots, jaw dropping open the smallest amount before he chuckles. It’s a dark sound. Despite the timbre of his voice – a light, friendly tenor offset greatly by sheer muscle mass and exquisite stubble – it’s deep and intimidating, echoing ominously through the room as it bounces from walls to hardwood and hanging in the air like a sardonic whisper.

Stiles eyes lock on the line of Derek’s jaw, drawing invisible lines down his throat and up his face until they settle firmly on the man’s lips: thin and chapped and Stiles has _kissed_ that mouth.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

The younger man jumps, gaze shooting pointedly upwards to meet his roommate’s eyes as stutters out a desperate, “Y-yes. Y-es please.”

Those thin, chapped lips curve into a tiny, delicate smile that Stiles recalls suddenly the last time he’d seen anything so warm on the Shifter’s face.

_“May I kiss you again?”_

A shiver races up Stiles’ spine at the recollection. Sinking further into the cushions of the couch, he watches Derek closely as he steps into the adjacent kitchen. There’s the creak of the refrigerator door. The clack of pots and pans before one clicks onto the stove. The sizzle of butter warming in a pan and the crack of eggs against the side of a bowl.

Belatedly, Derek peers out of the kitchen and asks, “Is French Toast okay?”

“F-i...” Beneath his cocoon, the student clears his throat. “Fine. Totally fine.”

Stiles spends a long time just staring at the empty TV screen. It’s much bigger than the one Malia, Danny, and he had at the old apartment.  (Granted, that one had been about ready to kick the bucket.) This one is more permanent. Intended to stay in place for longer and fill a larger hole in Derek’s – and, at one point, Laura’s – life. But it didn’t seem like something the older man would invest in.

Stiles glances around, suddenly curious. His eyes linger on photo-bare walls and simple furniture. The wide and simple couch. Lightly tinted walls that almost look gold in the morning light. Carpets; plush, but probably bundled with the apartment.

There's a strange, bright orange spoon the size of Stiles' arm hanging beside the kitchen; something the man can't believe he's never spotted before. Honestly, how? It's nearly neon, and seems to be made out of some kind of wood. He doesn't know nearly enough about trees to know which kind.

And it just... hangs there, suspended on a nail and staring down at him. Judging him as only a large, two foot long (give or take a few inches,) neon orange spoon can do. Which is to say, not at all. Yet he feels judged. It's quite possibly the only personal touch in the entire apartment, aside from a tall DVD case beside the entertainment system, painted an equally enthusiastic shade of green.

_Laura's touches_ , the man realizes bleakly.

Three knocks ring through the apartment, and Stiles leaps nearly a foot in the air as his heart lurches painfully in his chest. It passes quickly this time, lingering in his arms and legs as shivers and shakes as he makes his way up to the front door, blanket wrapped firmly about his shoulders.

Derek peers out of the kitchen. "I can-"

"No, I got it," Stiles insists quickly, grabbing at the lock on the knob, fingers scrambling over the chain before peering into the peephole and undoing the final bar. It clicks into place, and the door is thrown open without much ceremony, slapping the doorstop soundly.

Bundled in a large windbreaker – most likely stolen from Scott's wardrobe – Allison raises a hand in greeting, only for it to come to a sharp, abrupt stop mid-wave. Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and she blinks a few times, as if to clear her vision. "My god," she manages after a while. "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Stiles tells her firmly. He turns on his heel, fingers flying up to prod mindlessly at the bright green cast holding his nose in place. "I didn't expect you so early. I'll go print my paper now."

"I..." She trails off, watching the man retreat into his room before she deflates. Shoulders sagging, the woman reaches up to twirl a long lock of hair around a manicured nail. Her shoes click loudly against the floor as she turns toward the kitchen and steps in. For a while she watches the Shifter putter about the counter, hands working deftly to decorate a plate of pan-fried battered bread even as another batch cooks. An appreciative noise finds its way past her lips as the man arranges a few expertly sliced strawberries atop a small pile of cream, and an entire slice of toast is covered evenly in a dusting of powdered sugar. She leans against the counter, staring down at it for a long while, only to find the finished plate, garnished with a crescent of syrup, being nudged toward her with one large hand.

"Go ahead," Derek tells her, voice far softer than she had imagined it for all the Stiles complained. It was neither rusty from disuse, nor deep and intimidating. "Guests eat first."

Allison licks her lips, eyes flicking from the plate to the man before her, confused. "I thought... Stiles said you were... quiet."

The Shifter grins. It's a small thing; gone nearly as soon as she spots it. "He talks about me?"

Blinking confusedly, she considers not answering. Her mouth seems to answer on its own. "He says you don't talk to people when you first meet them."

"You're a friend of Stiles'," he replies softly, as if this explains all. "Have you eaten?"

"I – no."

The man motions again towards the plate, then points to a drawer behind him. "Forks are in there."

Nodding, as if in a daze, the woman turns and reaches for the drawer, pulling it open with rigid fingers. She picks a fork slowly. The smallest, narrowest of the bunch. At first they look mismatched, but upon closer evaluation she flinches. Some are partially melted and twisted. She recognizes the blackened streaks that mar the edges and divots for what they are; the blacked brand of scorch marks.

Approaching the plate offered to her, Allison smiles weakly. "Looks like it's time for new silverware."

Glancing over at the fork propped delicately in her hand, Derek shrugs. "My family has been eating with those for two-hundred years," he informs her proudly, transferring a perfectly brown, steaming slab of french toast to a second plate.

"That's..." Her eyebrows shoot up, and she stares pointedly at the small, dilapidated fork with newfound appreciation.

Striding out of the hallway, stack of papers fluttering in his hands, Stiles announces grandly, "Okay; all printed." Slapping the stack on the table, he looks curiously at the woman as she takes a bite of the toast. "I thought you were a vegetarian. Can you have eggs?"

"Pescatarian," she mutters around a mouthful of toast. She shares a small grin with Derek – something quick that confuses Stiles to no end – and swallows it eagerly. "And yes, I can."

"Oh... Cool."

At the stove, Derek snorts, then sets to work whisking another egg.

Taking a few more quick bites, Allison sets the plate in the sink, turning to the Shifter with a smile and asking, "Should I rinse it? Or-"

"Just leave it," he directs with a nod. "I'll be doing dishes later anyway."

"Thanks," she tells him sweetly, allowing the plate to settle into the sink with a sheepish grin. Turning to Stiles, she grabs at the stack of paper on the counter and follows him into the living room. "I don't see why you find him so insufferable," she tells him all too loudly.

Stiles sighs. "Let’s just say he grows on you when you realize he doesn’t chew on the bones of orphans and, you know, plot world domination in his free time." Grabbing the door knob, he pulls it open swiftly, motioning her out into the hallway with a strained grin. "And, uh, hey..."

When he man makes no move to continue, Allison pauses in the door frame with a look. "What is it?"

"Could you... not tell Scott about this?"

Her mouth pops open in a shocked ‘o’ as she stares at his incredulously. "He's your best friend."

"Well, yeah, but I still don't really want him to know. Not until I'm... better."

Her eyes linger on his, narrowing sadly before trailing across the bruises across his cheeks and the cast on his nose. "Stiles," she begins, voice low and calm and soothing. "I know you're really proud of being a feminist, but part of feminism is knocking down that wall I know you're putting up around yourself right now, even if it's only for Scott. Especially if it's only towards Scott. It's only going to hurt you in the long run. You don’t need to protect him from anything."

Despite himself, Stiles felt a grin spread across his face much like a poorly treated rash. And when the woman moved to leave he called after her, "I know there was a reason I liked you."

"Oh yeah? And why's that?" she replies over her shoulder.

"You call me on my shit two seconds in."

She turns on her heel, grinning sweetly at him, dimples flashing. "If Scott and I ever split up, I hope you know I'll still want to be your friend."

Stiles rolls his eyes, fingers coming up to make quotes in the air. "Right. You and Scott. 'Breaking up.' I don't think that's even possible."

Allison eyes him coolly for a long second before smiling sadly and shaking her head. "Call Scott, Stiles. This week." Without waiting for a reply, the woman strides around the corner and out of sight. The faint sounds of her heels thumping hollowly across commercial carpeting echo down the hall, eventually drowned out by the gentle hum of the elevator responding to a call singing through the floor.

Closing the door firmly, Stiles retreats into the apartment with a drawn sigh. Then he pauses. Turns. Looks at the man stepping from the kitchen bearing a plate of french toast on each arm.

Derek darts easily around the couch. His hands have been wiped clean. Despite this, a small dusting of sugar has claimed his cheek as home; bold against the tanned tones of the man’s skin. Settling the plates atop the coffee table, he settles in to sit in the gap between it and the couch, leaning forward to take a large bite as he grabs at a clipboard with one hand.

Seeing the invitation for what it is, Stiles claims the bit of floor beside him and takes a bite.

It’s…

Okay?

The bread is a bit tough. The egg a little rubbery. Even the strawberries are dry and lifeless.

“You’re a bad cook, aren’t you?”

“Allison got the good ones,” is Derek’s reply.

“Is Laura this bad at cooking?”

He snorts. “She’s worse.”

For a long second this hangs in the air. Harmless. Fun.

Stiles makes a curious noise just before the mood plummets, taking a large bite of his french toast. He motions towards the clipboard with his fork. “What’s that?” he asks around the mouthful.

The older man jumps, glancing confusedly at Stiles before turning back to the papers. “Work.”

“Work? Like a job? You have a job?”

“I’m an accountant.”

Stiles stares at him, perplexed. “Oh my god. You’re a totally normal person.”

Derek freezes, eyes stuck somewhere above the paper as if the lower left-hand corner of the television might somehow translate whatever the fuck Stiles is saying. “I-”

“Okay, no, that came out wrong. That came out totally wrong.” Clearing his throat, the younger man sets his fork down on the plate, now half bare of its contents. “I meant I thought you were a trust fund baby or something. I mean, you own an apartment in New York. Seriously.”

“Opposed to hilariously?”

A laugh bursts from Stiles at this, and he looks upon Derek with renewed interest. “When did you grow a funny bone?”

“Last night,” he replies, deadpan, “between chewing on the bones of orphans and plotting world domination.”

At first Stiles thinks he’s being bitter, but before long he spots them – the small, insignificant grin and the soft flush blooming high in the man’s cheeks like they’re scared to say hello.

This is when his heart does the strangest thing and leaps into his stomach, beats steadily in his throat, and throbs in the very tips of his toes.

…

Stiles doesn’t think much of it when his room feels like a gaping hole, threatening to swallow him up. He pulls the curtains shut, falls into bed, and drags the sheets up over his head.

When his dreams grip him by the hair and begin to beat his face he jerks awake in a cold sweat. His eyes crank open, staring blankly at the far wall. The blankets are in a ball at his feet. His clothes twist about his torso. At first he grabs them and pulls them back over his head, but as soon as he falls asleep the hands are back. Slamming into his cheeks. Ramming into his stomach. And when he wakes the second time, grabbing at his chest and tears tracking down his face, he gives up.

Slapping ineffectively at the mattress, Stiles mostly falls out of bed. Within seconds his phone is in his hands. Navigating quickly to the internet browser, pulls up google and types in quickly, “dreamless sleep remedies.”

Over the next twenty minutes, the only thing that bears any promise are the various recommendations of Valerian tea and about fifty chrome ads for a 24-hour Wiccan Lifestyle store two miles away that make him stare blankly at his phone. He considers visiting the website, but decides against it upon realizing he'd be getting ads for good-mood crystals and goth boots for the foreseeable future if he does.

When it comes to grabbing his wallet and stepping into the foyer he finds himself shaking. He pulls a jacket over his pajamas, shoves his phone and wallet deep into his pockets, and on his way out spots a smudge of red in the corner of his vision.

It’s propped up against the foyer wall, tucked between the shoe rack and the small table Derek uses to house his key bowl. (And hey – are those car keys?) He’s about to lean over – to pry out the bright smudge of color that looks vaguely familiar – when there’s a low whine in the distance. A door being opened. The hollow thump of bare feet on hardwood. And before long his roommate is standing before him, expression open and confused.

“It’s late,” he says blandly. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to, like… tea.” Stiles clears his throat, glancing between the front door and the man before him. “I’m going to get some tea.”

“Tea,” Derek parrots slowly. His hand comes up, as if he were about to attempt to silence the already silent man before him.

Shifting uneasily, the younger man nods resolutely. “Tea.”

“Tea…” the Shifter murmurs once more. He turns, head swinging around so he can glance momentarily toward the kitchen before turning back to his companion. “What kind of tea?”

“Uh… Valerian tea?”

“Is it to help you sleep?” The question is tentative. Prodded carefully from a thick, invisible carapace he is no doubt growing.

Stiles nods slowly.

“Laura has some chamomile in the cupboard.”

They both seem confused by the offer, shifting from foot to foot on the creaking hardwood, socks sliding; shoes squeaking.

"Do you think she'd mind?"

Derek shrugs weakly. "It's not like she has nightmares any more."

Unbidden, a matching pair of grins rise in their cheeks. "Thanks," Stiles manages after a brief second, toeing slowly out of his shoes.

"Do you know how to make it?" Derek asks as the younger man pads into the kitchen, socked feet thumping hollowly against the creaking hardwood floors.

"Aren't there directions on the side of the box?" Pulling open a cupboard, Stiles frowns and closes it quickly, then yanks open another. "It can't be that hard, can it?"

Stepping slowly toward the hall, the Shifter shrugs. "Not really. I'm headed to bed."

"Night."

"Good night." Despite their farewells, Derek doesn't leave right off. He lingers, fingers trailing slowly over the kitchen archway before he steps away. By the time the kettle is on the stove he's gone.

The tea is relatively easy to locate. It's settled on a small, high shelf beside the fridge. Round and brightly colored, the tin is sealed tight and fights him when he first attempts to open it.  But when its lid is removed, and its contents plundered, Stiles stares down at the tea in utter confusion.

He's supposed to drink this?

This...

Leaf water?

He sniffs cautiously at it, recoiling at the scents that flutter up from the surface. No doubt a tea snob would call it “earthy” and “robust,” or something equally stupid. Glancing back at the tin, he reads the label aloud, eyes screwing into little slits. "Premium Chamomile and Rose Petal loose-leaf tea. For sweet, dreamless sleep. Do not drink if nursing or pregnant. For Shifter consumption onl-" Slapping the container back onto the counter, the man promptly dumps the contents of his mug into the sink with a drawn grimace. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Placing the container back in the cupboard, Stiles closes the door firmly before making his way into the hall. He passes the couch, then the walls close in and he's drawing to a stop. His knuckles rap sharply against the solid wood of the older man's door. "Hey, Derek," he calls, hand finding the knob without prelude. "That tea wasn't for humans." As the door swings open, he finds a slow grin spreading across his face.

On the bed, propped up on a small mountain of pillows, Derek slams a laptop shut with more force than is necessary.

Loping across the room, Stiles settles beside the man with a narrow smile, pointedly ignoring the way Derek stares almost guiltily at the closet. “So,” he begins slowly, drawing out the word with a roll of his eyes. “Laura’s tea is Chamomile and Rose petals.”

“Yes,” the Shifter agrees readily.

“And poison.”

“Yes.”

“I’m assuming this slipped your mind when you offered me your sister’s tea.”

“Yes.”

“Can you say anything other than yes?”

“Yes.”

“Were you watching porn?” Stiles motions toward the laptop with one hand, fingers wiggling churlishly toward the closed screen. “Am I interrupting important ‘you’ time with my dilemma?”

Derek remains silent, palms smoothing slowly across the top of the laptop before deftly flicking it open and tapping at the space bar.

A wave of shame overcomes Stiles as classical music filters through the room, and on screen a young woman stands expertly poised, arms arched elegantly above her head as her free leg sweeps over the ground to the beat of a trumpet. Her long brown hair is twisted up into a high, severe bun. And, as the camera zooms, her eyes flash a bright gold as she turns.

“This was before the fire,” the Shifter tells him solemnly as a younger, teenaged Laura turns elegantly on screen. The camera zooms out, and a wide crowd is revealed, staring up at the lone girl on stage.

“I didn’t know she danced,” the younger man manages quietly. “That’s a big crowd.”

“Crowds didn’t bother her back then.” As soon as the words are out, the man visibly chokes. Staring intently at the screen, his jaw clamps shut, creaking ominously as his teeth grind furiously.

As the violins swell, Stiles glances up at the man cautiously, gaze lingering on the taut line of his mouth and the furrows settling far too deep in his forehead to be natural. “You know, people are sad for a lot of reasons at funerals,” he starts softly.

Derek’s eyes remain locked on the screen, but his mouth seems to soften; curiosity sinking slowly into his expression.

“They can be sad that someone died, yes, but they can also be sad for themselves. Or for their friends and relatives. They can be sad they’re missing the game, or because they can’t afford a living any more. And that’s okay. Being sad is a perfectly natural thing, and that’s okay. So to be sad you’ve lost someone is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know that.”

“Then you should know,” Stiles continues slowly, “that it’s okay to cry.”

And Derek laughs.

It’s a warm, almost tangible sound. It filters through Stiles’ ears like a trickle of water; rolling through and coating him with a layer of something that makes him shiver. The sensation is foreign, yet entirely familiar.

“Maybe some other time,” the Shifter tells him, looking away from the screen to pin him with his gaze. “But thanks.” His expression is open. Almost welcoming. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and his dimples charge into battle to claim victories and ovaries for their cause.

It is this, Stiles decides, he would use as an excuse later, should things go horribly wrong. Because upon seeing that wide, appreciative smile he leans forward with hardly more than a thought to press his lips gently to the apple of Derek’s cheek. Stubble scrapes at his mouth and nose; an almost pleasant burn. And as he pulls away so that they are once again sitting shoulder to shoulder, side by side on the man’s wide bed, he can’t help but stare in awe at the expression on the older man’s face.

Surprise. Amusement. Affection. Derek’s jaw falls open momentarily as his eyes glance down, then back up to lock their gaze. “May I-”

Stiles lunges forward, hands scrambling to lock around the back of the man’s neck, where short hairs tickle his fingers. What follows seems almost like a dream; events remaining oddly separate as if they were individual battles to be won.

Noses bump, and Stiles hisses in aborted pain.

Hands grab at cheeks to realign faces, lingering on necks and jawlines and the hollows behind the ears.

Eyes slide closed in anticipation.

And, finally, their lips slip together.

What both had intended to be slow, soft, and shallow became a mashing of lightly parted lips and the desperate grabbing of hands. They turn to face each other; chests aligning as they each contort so that they might find a more convenient angle.

Pulling away with a gasped curse, Derek’s hands push the laptop onto the comforter before grabbing at Stiles’ hips, lifting him easily from the mound of pillows behind them and onto his lap. The man seems confused at first, but moves with him easily after a short moment of fumbling, throwing his leg over Derek’s thighs and straddling him so that he might lean forward and press their lips together more forcefully. It’s almost a revelation of sorts; what the Shifter feels. There’s a pulsing in his head and stomach, shaking his hands with the force of his heart beating. In his throat is a warm sort of sweetness, and his chest seems to be unable to decide whether he should pull his companion closer or if he should break to breathe. All his focus narrows to a single point in a manner of seconds. Stiles’ lips. Stiles’ hands. Stiles’ hips pressed almost insistently to his; entirely too warm to be anything less than what he sincerely hopes. It brings with it a wave of tiring relief, and exhaustion seems to settle in his very bones.

_“Derek,”_ Laura squeals suddenly, the small laptop speakers tinny with her shriek of joy. _“I didn’t know you were going to make it!”_

Lurching back into the pillows, the Shifter manages a choked sob, burying his face in his hands to hide the sudden torrent of tears cascading down his cheeks.

Leaning away, Stiles carefully closes the laptop before settling back up to Derek. “Come on,” he says, hands smoothing over the man’s arms, guiding his hands over his face. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry. It’s okay. You don’t have to hide behind anything.”

“I’m not hiding,” Derek insists even as his hands are pried away from his eyes, revealing the reddened, moist, snott-drizzled mess that is now his face. But even as they are taken away he gapes.

“See?” the younger man insists, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. Small tracks of tears have made their way down his own face, and through them he stares pointedly at the Shifter. “I’m crying. I’m not… I haven’t burst into flames or gone blind. No one’s ripping out my throat or running into the room wielding a broadsword. Crying is totally fine.”

Unbidden, a laugh bubbles up from the older man’s throat, and he grabs rather ineffectively at a box of tissues hidden in the drawer of the bedside table. He grabs one, offering the box to Stiles even as he mops his face.

Stiles, utterly befuddled, takes a tissue cautiously.

When the snot had been cleared from beneath his nose, Derek leans forward to press the lightest of kisses to the end of Stiles’ bright green cast. “Thanks,” he whispers sweetly.

“No problem,” Stiles tells him earnestly, the smallest of embarrassed grins lighting upon his cheeks.

They lean into each other once more, lips catching chastely in the dim light of the bedside lamp.


	8. There's a Kanima in my Living Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: I have been told this chapter is scary. Further warnings in the end notes.
> 
> Original Note: In case anyone missed the Temp. Hiatus message that I plastered everywhere, family, work, hospitals, and funerals took up a lot of my time for a while. So… late chapter. Obviously. On the upside, this particular update is longer than usual. Thanks to Oliver, Arnaud, Miz, and Elpie for helping me through the bulk of editing, writing, and the emotional roller-coaster that was my life over the course of the production of this chapter.

When Stiles wakes it is not to the sound of an alarm. It is not to a phone buzzing to the beat of its own nonexistent, mechanical drum, or the insistent wail of a far-but-near siren. There are no doors being slammed an undeterminable number of apartments away. The plumbing is blissfully, modernly silent, and the buzz of the elevator is subtle at best. Even the city is quiet. It has paused to breathe between stretches of screaming cars and blaring music and furious shouts. The reality is far more palatable.

Against his ear is the sweetest whisper of air; lips are inches away puckered in an amused smile as fingers card through the growth at the base of his neck, tickling the skin with longer strands of hair. A small, uneasy puff of air follows. “Sorry,” the man murmurs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Stiles shifts casually against the bed, hand falling into the soft, squishy mattress to push himself this-side-up, only to shift slightly to the other side and settle back down into the pile of pillows. Eye to eye, he smiles amusedly and leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of the man’s mouth with a satisfied hum. “Morning.”

Derek shivers beneath the attention, shifting away from the younger man’s affections with a grumble. “Morning _breath_ ,” he corrects bitterly. Despite this, he darts forward and plants a tender peck on the unbruised cheek. “Breakfast?”

Stiles smiles and stretches. “Depends. Are you secretly an asshole beneath all this morning perfection? Because I’m an asshole and my relationships tend to last longer with other assholes.”

For a long moment the Shifter’s eyes remain trained on him, locking their gazes almost to the point of nervous tension. But then his jaw drops open, and he squeaks out a small, “May…” He trails off, and his eyes shutter swiftly before he leans forward, pressing their lips carefully together, the muscles in his neck in stark relief beneath his skin as he strains to avoid Stiles’ injured nose.

The kiss is warm, and wet, and altogether far too eager for eight o’clock in the morning. But as the Shifter rises from the bed, boxer-briefs clinging desperately to his lithe hips as a rising shirt is tugged down, Stiles’ own words begin to sink in.

 _Relationships_.

With only this as warning, Stiles finds his mind blank. Gone are witty comebacks and the number of slugs he’d eaten before he was six. Gone are basic bodily functions and the recipe for a grilled cheese sandwich. “Bye-bye!” his list of favorite things in the world goes. Should you ask him at this particular moment for his thoughts on Lord of the Wild Things he will stare at you for a rather awkward amount of time, sputtering a very startled, “Mrffl?” This would be shortly before keeling over from the heart attack he is no doubt at risk for as his chest begins to scream up and down the halls of his chest, echoing in his ears and hands and feet. Were he capable of true thought, he would realize that Derek can hear each and every solitary screech through his veins.

They’re in a relationship.

They’re in… a _relationship_.

A strange wave of heat crashes through Stiles’ as the knowledge sinks in. He giggles stupidly for a bit, hysterical and giddy, for approximately three minutes with his face half buried in the older man’s pillow, breathing in his scent like a particularly disturbed greyhound. Naturally, when these three minutes draw to an end his eyes fly open and a thick layer of dread settles deep in his stomach. Without any real reason why, the eager balloon tied to Stiles’ spine is popped quite theatrically as he freezes in place, voice frozen in his throat as he pulls the pillow into his chest. After a dramatic handful of minutes he releases it. It is only then, with great trepidation, that he slides off the bed and onto the floor.

Beneath his feet the hardwood is cold and unforgiving, sending bolts of shivers up his legs and needles into his toes. Despite this he pads out of the room and into the living area, peering into the kitchen with a strange mix of trepidation and courage. His eyes linger on the pan warming on the stove. On the clumsy way Derek cracks eggs into a bowl, sending bits of shell into the yolk. On his still moving lips as he curses, then turns to face Stiles. “Morning, again,” he greets, a flush high on his cheeks.

“I figured…” Stiles clears his throat. “I figured we should talk about this.”

Derek glances toward the broken egg, before motioning between them. “This?” he parrots quietly.

“I just… We need to agree about what’s going on here,” Stiles manages after a bit. “Otherwise there’s going to be a shitton of confusion going around and a lot of misunderstandings that I just don’t want to deal with.”

Reaching for the stove, the Shifter turns off the burner, setting the pan aside with a dry look. And when a silence settles he motions to the empty space between them with one hand.

The younger man swallows, shifting from foot to foot, eyes fixing on the floor before they turn up to meet Derek’s gaze. “So, first we need to establish what we are. Last night we kissed. And fell asleep together. And then woke up and kissed some more. So I think we’re safely out of ‘straight’ territory.”

Nodding slowly, the man settles his hands against the counter, leaning his weight against the surface as his expression grows dark.

“I think it needs to be said that I’m not attracted to you,” Stiles chokes out after a short while, earning a flinch. “Not, like, in the conventional sense. Like, your biceps are huge and your abs could probably kill someone, and that’s not my thing. I like long hair and lip gloss, and I’m pretty sure you would look hella stupid with those. Not that I would really know. I mean, I’m far from the fashion police. Apparently socks and sandals aren’t-”

“Is there a point to this?” Derek snaps. His jaw is tight, eyebrows furrowed, and his hands have balled into fists against the countertop.

Stiles gapes. His mouth opens and closes like a fish until it snaps shut with a firm click. His hands fumble against the lines of his boxers, trying to find pockets that aren’t there, and he realizes suddenly that they’re both there in their underwear and T-shirts attempting to have an important conversation, interrupting what had been an attempt to make them essentially-morning-after pancakes.

“If there is,” the Shifter continues angrily, “get to it.”

“What I’m trying to say is that my kissing you had nothing to do with your ridiculous biceps, okay?” the younger man snaps defensively. His eyes flare furiously, hands clenching at his sides. “In fact, they make me hella envious sometimes. Because, wow. I know you don’t work out aside from the occasional push-up, and that is infuriating, okay? I – I’m getting off topic. The point is…” His voice catches, and his hand comes up to push through the lazy strands of his bed head. “The point is…”

“Yes, Stiles, what is the point?” Derek hisses.

Stiles’ gaze shoots away from the floor, landing heavily upon the dark stubbled cheek turned away from him not five feet before him. His eyes go soft, hands unclench, and his mouth grows suddenly, inexplicably dry as he confesses, “The point is that I want to be with you anyway.”

The Shifter is quiet as the words echo in the room. The refrigerator's hums grow in pitch, drowning out the last of his words.

“I want to be here when you wake up,” the younger man admits further. “I want to be here when you’re angry, or sad, or just being stubborn as hell. I want to be here when you’re antisocial. I want to be here when you make really shitty waffles. And I guess that’s what matters, right?”

Slowly, Derek nods.

Leaning against the archway in as casual a manner as he can manage, Stiles purses his lips before muttering defensively, “Look, I know you’re not good with the whole ‘talking about emotion’ thing, but it’s your turn.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

A raspberry sputters its way through the room as Stiles’ lips purse amusedly. He rolls his eyes. “Okay. Fine. Then how about this? I’m gonna list a bunch of things that I’m open to being, and then you tell me which one you’d like us to be. Starting with friends.”

Derek’s expression remains impassive, but his fingers tighten against the counter.

“Fuck buddies.”

His eyes flash, and his gaze moves to the abandoned bowl of egg.

“Friends with benefits.”

Jaw tight, he reaches for the bowl and begins to pick bits of shell out of the yolk, which bleeds yellow smears onto his fingers.

“An open relationship.”

Derek scoffs, fingers diving more violently into the egg as his eyes harden.

“Monogamous boyfriends.”

And then he freezes. His hands grow still against the bowl, and his mouth drops open in a soft and silent, “Oh.”

Cautiously, Stiles continues. “Lovers.”

Drawing his fingers out of the egg, Derek wipes his hands against the oven towel before turning towards the younger man, striding forward two full steps before drawing to a stop nose-to-nose with his companion.

Stiles barely manages to murmur out, “Partners,” before lips slide against his and his back is pressed flush against the archway.

Strong hands bracket his face as the plaster digs at his spine, and Derek’s legs slip between the cage of Stiles’ thighs as they push together. Drawing away, the older man breathes happily, “Monogamous,” before diving forward and sliding  his lips along the column of Stiles’ throat.

“Monogamous,” the student parrots happily, tilting his head to the side. His eyes fly open just as they begin to shutter, his entire body contracting inwards as his stitches brush against the corner of the archway. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…”

Rising back up, Derek hisses a curse as his fingers turn Stiles’ head. He takes a long moment to silently admire the damage. A wide streak of hair had been buzzed away, giving way to the small, neat stitches that run horizontally, three inches long, curving minutely at the end. “Are you in any pain?” he finally thinks to ask, eyeing them cautiously.

“Dude, I just smacked the stitches keeping my head together against a wall. What the hell do you think?” Stiles drawls. “And you’re an idiot if you think that’s a cue to stop kissing me.” Lunging forward, he slips his mouth against the pliant pair of lips before him, chin scraping delicately across barely tamed stubble.

Dodging back, the older man shakes his head. “I still have to make breakfast.”

Stiles silences him with another kiss.

…

Rising from the couch nearly two hours later – when the light filtering through the living room blinds falls across the carpet in abstract horizontal lines, sliding across the floor until it falls into Stiles’ hooded eyes – the man reaches his arms above his head and groans. Rolling off the cushion, he settles his feet on the floor with an aborted grunt.

“Is something wrong?” Derek asks, squinting through the pattern of the blinds as he adjusts himself up onto one elbow. His eyelashes flutter sleepily, and his voice is thick with sleep.

Drawing to a pause, Stiles turns on his heel to face his boyfriend. My boyfriend, he thinks giddily. “I promised Allison I’d tell Scott what happened,” he informs him softly. “So I just figured I’d do that while I’m doing… well.”

Derek nods, gaze slipping from Stiles’ eyes to the window, then back. “Do you need a ride?”

Toes slipping through the plush carpets, his companion sighs. “Honestly? That would be amazing.”

…

“Derek, I’m pretty sure the guy behind us wants to shove his foot through your spine.”

“He can shove his foot up his ass.”

Waving his arms pointedly before them, Stiles motions enthusiastically toward the wide open street that stretches out before them even as cars move around them like they are a particularly heavy and stylish stone. Assuming stones could be shaped like Camaros.

“What?”

“You’re going fifty.”

“The speed limit is twenty-five.”

“And everyone is doing _seventy_.”

“Assuming a police car turned that corner right now,” Derek snaps, hand flying out to gesture at the quickly approaching, and then passing corner, “and they actually did their job with speed management, I would be the only person on the entire block who wouldn’t be arrested.”

“That’s because we’d be _dead_ because you’re driving Mr. Daisy!” Stiles hisses back, sinking further into his seat. “Wake me when the three-car pile-up is over.”

“We aren’t going to crash,” Derek snaps. His fingers guide the car neatly into the furthermost right lane, then guide them into a flawless parallel park, with only so much braking and sudden reversing that Stiles nearly vomits, as opposed to actually exploding chunks of partially digested, slimy pancakes across the interior of the freshly polished windshield. “See? We’re here.”

“I’m going to puke on you.” Fumbling blindly for the door handle, Stiles attempts to fall out of the sleek, black, obnoxiously ostentatious Camaro that was, in fact, Derek’s car before he finds his throat gripped tightly by death.

Death being, of course, his seatbelt.

Untangling himself from the life-saving contraption turned dark side, Stiles stumbles out onto the street with a strange sense of foreboding.

“Call me when you’re done. Don’t die in the lobby,” his boyfriend – his wonderful, sweet boyfriend – drawls before the door slaps shut behind him and the man pulls away from the curb.

Watching the man go with a roll of his eyes, Stiles turns to the familiar apartment building. He hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder with a grimace. “Hello, old friend,” he whispers to it solemnly before striding up the familiar incline to the front doors. They open easily, with no locks or codes required for entry. After so long in Derek’s lobby, Stiles finds that the entryway feels a bit too small. The ceilings are low; chairs small and nondescript. (And bolted to the floor, besides.)

The elevator is not much better. It feels boxy and confining. Where the mirrors in the elevator for Derek’s apartment complex would simulate space, there are instead cheap plywood panels that smell faintly of smoke. In the corner, even, is a single smashed cigarette butt. Stiles stares at this morbidly until the doors slide open, the floor shaking briefly beneath his feet as the elevator comes to a stop.

The man steps gladly into the hall, breathing fresher, cleaner air. (Or as clean as New York is capable of.) At first he’s gripped with anxiety. Is Scott going to freak or Mom him? Is he going to start calling him every time he skips class or goes grocery shopping? But even as he approaches his friend’s door, Stiles waves these all off. Scott is his best friend. He’ll understand. These are the thoughts that comfort him as he approaches the older man’s door, but flee as he raises one hand to knock and it is yanked open from the other side.

“-just need a little-” Allison’s voice catches as her eyes land on Stiles; liner smeared and mascara racing down her cheeks. She’s halfway out the door when she draws to a stop, gaze flicking momentarily to Stiles face, the cast on his nose, then his hand. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he manages in reply. He glances from Allison to Scott, who stands stiffly in the living room just beyond the door. “Am I interrupting something?”

The woman shakes her head, then steps around Stiles slowly, making her way into the hall. A small overnight bag is tucked beneath her elbow, brushing against his arm as she passes and strides around the corner without so much as a friendly farewell.

For a few seconds after, the two men stand in relative, awkward silence before Scott manages with false cheer, “What happened to your face?”

Glancing up from the floor, Stiles shrugs minutely. “Got kidnapped and beaten by a serial killer,” he admits humorously, stepping through the open door. He snaps it closed behind him, drowning out the hum of the steadily descending elevator.

“You’re…” Scott goes pale. “You’re not kidding.”

Collapsing onto the small, threadbare, smelly loveseat, Stiles pats the spare inches of cushion beside him. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. Let’s talk about why Allison is storming out of your apartment with a duffel bag and crying more than you did after the premier of the eighth Harry Potter movie.”

“Dude, you said you’d never hold that against me.”

‘I’m not holding it against you,” Stiles clarifies, all faux sweetness. “What I’m holding against you is that Allison just stormed out of here in tears. So talk or I’m going to assume this is entirely your fault.”

“I’m your best friend!” Scott whinges.

“Which,” Stiles begins, pausing for full effect, “is why I know this is most likely your fault. I know you.”

The older man rolls his eyes, hands latching onto the edge of the kitchen counter as he leans against it. “Yeah, it probably is.”

Settling himself further into the curve of the chair, momentarily cursing its lack of sinking cushions and butt-swallowing, Stiles stares up at his friend with his fingers steepled comically atop his stomach. “How long have you two been fighting like this?”

Running one hand anxiously through his hair, Scott sighs. “Six months or so, I guess. I mean, we were always fighting about small things before that. Since the beginning. It’s not like we ever tried to stop arguing, now that I think about it. But until the fall Semester it was never anything huge, you know”

“Scotty, that is literally months before you moved in together. Did you think your problems were just going to go away?”

“We were hoping.”

“Jesus Christ, you guys are idiots,” Stiles hisses, staring up at the older man with open shock. “I’m far from the relationship guru, but that is unhealthy as hell.”

“Look, Stiles…” Scott sighs, eyes slipping closed before they drop open to half mast, trailing guiltily across the apartment’s commercial carpeting. “As much as I… I… I think I need to be alone right now. Sorry.”

“Dude, no, never apologize for that,” Stiles tells him softly, rising from the chair. “I get it. You just had a fight. You’re in a bad place and need to process. No problem.” Scrambling over the table flush against the front of the chair, he gives his companion a friendly finger wave before dragging his feet to the door. “I’ll call next time or something.”

“No, wait,” Scott calls, hand clamping suddenly on the younger man’s shoulder.

And the world tilts.

When Stiles comes to the apartment is at an angle. He’s in the corner nearest the door, tucked between the door knob and Scott’s rancid sneakers. The Latino man in question stares down at him, alarmed, as air rushes about Stiles ears, hisses into his lungs, and pounds through his head.

“You’re not okay, are you?” Scott manages softly.

“No,” Stiles admits. “I’m really not.”

…

By the time Stiles collects himself enough to leave, Scott has spent a good few minutes asking if he should call an ambulance, to which the younger man replies with increasing firmness, “No.” The hallway is a relief after the cramped apartment, and Stiles makes sure the door is closed firmly before firing off a text to Derek. But even as he glances up, he collides with a tall, solid form that sends him stumbling back a step.

And then he’s alone.

“My apologies,” a voice says, and an elderly man rounds the corner with a drawn grin. He’s tall; nearly an inch taller than Stiles and holding himself with a sense of purpose. “Oh, hello again. It’s been a while.”

“A… while?” Stiles peers at the man curiously. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

The octogenarian chuckles, his balding head ducking momentarily as he laughs. “It was rather short. We were doing laundry. We spoke briefly about socks. You were with a young woman at the time; Malia Tate.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t either. You seemed to be having a long day.” He chuckles again. It’s a deep sound; almost ominous. “Now, you seem to be in a bit of a rush. I suppose it’s best I don’t detain you with my ramblings. Consider yourself fortunate. And, again, my apologies for running in to you.”

“Yeah, sure, right back at you,” Stiles mutters, hand raising cordially as the man steps around him. And as he steps into the elevator, which opens quickly upon his call, he hears the strange man’s voice in the distance.

“You must be Scott. I’m Gerard. Allison sent me up for her phone.”

Then, in the same voice, a shadow of his memory whispers, _“Consider… fortunate.”_

As the elevator doors close, his fingers find his phone. Through a haze of adrenaline he dials Scott’s number. It struggles to connect, tone low and even. He is far from comforted by the sound. And when the line finally patches through, clicking twice, he takes a deep, careful breath through the panic as he waits for… what? A scream? A ransom? The man – Gerard – informing him that he’s too late?

 _“Did you forget something?”_ Scott asks instead, covering the mic briefly to tell the man in question, _“Yes, that’s the one. Would you mind closing the door on your way out? Thanks.”_

Stiles voice catches in his throat, and it’s all he can do to pull the phone away from his face and end the call.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal the dingy lobby. Stiles doesn’t linger, attention firmly on the doors instead of the furniture bolted to the lobby floors. Striding out of the building and into the bold black Camaro parked out front, his fingers clench around the handle and he slides smoothly into the car. “Can you drop me off at the police station?”

“Why do you need to go to the station?” Derek asks, previous annoyance melting away in favor of curiosity.

“Because I think I just met a serial killer.”

…

Despite the flickering overhead lights and towering stacks of paperwork, the station looks generally the same as it did when Stiles last saw it. (Someone should probably replace that bulb. It’s annoying.) There are newspapers pinned to the walls, abandoned scraps of yarn littering the floor, and a number of people moving about and generally making the man feel uneasy. He quickly makes his way to the front desk, glancing nervously from a cluster of lowly whispering officers, to a woman with a blackened eye, then to the receptionist.

“Is Officer Yukimura around?” he asks softly, leaning forward over the desk in an attempt to meet her gaze.

Glancing up from her computer screen, the receptionist shrugs before grabbing the back of her chair and shouting in the general direction of the office, “Does anyone know where Yukimura’s at?”

“She’s on lunch with the boss,” someone shouts back, voice echoing through the front room and shivering in the air. “Their usual place.”

The receptionist shouts back her thanks, then turns to Stiles with an off grin, lip gloss glimmering briefly in the flickering light. “Yukimura’s at this place a few blocks from here, just off Flushing – Café Muffler or something like that.”

“Shifter,” Stiles corrects automatically. “Café Shifter.”

“That’s the one. You know it?”

“Yeah,” he replies easily. “Yeah, I know it.” With a cordial wave, he sets off back through the foyer and out onto the street. He glances at the signs in the distance, familiar smears of color against the sea of trees; the neighborhood park. A jogger passes him, nearly throwing him off the sidewalk, and a bike messenger streaks into the intersection alongside screaming cars and motorcycles.

It’s three in the afternoon, and the city is at its loudest. As Stiles makes his way down the streets that are slowly growing familiar he tries not to watch the people around him as they watch him. They can’t seem to divert their eyes, dragging along the bruises on his face and clinging to the bright green cast bracketing his nose. As he grows closer to the café a steady tremor takes root in his hands. He shoves them deep in his pockets, attempting to focus on the movement around him. A woman with long, unmanicured nails draws hair away from a fanged mouth. Two young teens with baggy clothes hop onto the sidewalk, maneuvering through the foot traffic with the ease of someone born in the area. In the street, a collection of cars blare angrily as a van turns a bit too sharply around the corner, down the road, and out of sight.

When Stiles steps through the café doors, the bell jingles twice. Once as it opens, once as it closes. At the counter, heads raise at the sound, and Erica quickly nudges Isaac to the side to take over the front counter.

“Hey,” she greets, already reaching for a mug. “Your usual?”

“No, just looking for someone,” he replies shakily, eyes dragging around the room before they land on the familiar woman in the corner. Striding up to the table, he spares a glance at the dark-skinned woman across from the officer before turning all his attention on Kira. “Do you have a moment.”

She glances up from her companion, black ponytail shaking like a dog’s tail as she turns. “Stiles? Yeah. Sure. Uh, take a seat.”

Stiles glances around, searching for a spare chair before spotting one a few tables away. He drags it carefully between the cluttered clientele, muttering apologies as he jostles them. When he finally settles into his seat the woman points to his nose.

“Healing well?”

“I guess?” Stiles replies awkwardly. He glances carefully at the dark-skinned woman, eyeing the badge on her front and squinting the inscription.

“This is Chief Inspector Morell,” Kira volunteers, waving to her companion. “Anything you say to me will eventually make its way to her.” She turns to the woman in question, motioning with one hand to their new companion. “Chief Inspector Morell, this is Stiles Stilinski.”

“We’ve met,” the woman announces cooly.

Stiles blinks. “We have?”

“You showed up in the middle of an investigation,” she tells him softly. “I watched you while the SWAT team searched your apartment for the suspect.”

“Oh…” The man blinks, staring at her in pleasant surprise. Mentally superimposing Morell’s face over the SWAT woman in the hallway, he found himself nodding with approval until Kira clears her throat.

“So what happened?” the woman asks, glancing between Morell and Stiles. “Why the sudden visit?”

He turns his attention back to the officer with a startled wag of his head, her words slowly sinking in. It’s a long few seconds before they sink home. “I may have a name for you,” he murmurs.

Kira’s expression darkens, and a professional mask settles firmly over her features. “A name?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms softly. “Gerard.”

“Gerard?” Morell parrots. “First name or last name?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Tugging a pad of paper from her jacket pocket, Kira clicks a pen and settles his wrist against the table. “Can you give me a description? Anything you noticed about him?”

Stiles nods quickly, biting his lip before launching into a description of the man. From his height to his build to his balding head before finishing with, “He’s also somehow connected to Allison Argent.”

The two women freeze at the mention, backs stiff and expressions rigid. Only when the hum of the espresso machine draws to a pause do they relax, glancing at one another before Kira mouths, “Argent.”

The man blinks. “Am I missing something?”

“How did you get this name, Stiles?” Morell asks, turning toward him with her mouth drawn into a severe grimace.

“My friend Scott had a fight with his girlfriend – which is Allison – and Gerard came up to get her phone. She forgot it..”

Kira blinks. “And you recognized him?”

“His voice, yeah,” Stiles says, leaning back sharply as a pale hand suddenly sets a mug on the table, contents steaming lightly. He spares Erica a wan grin as she straightens with a smile.

“Maybe the Kanima has a human master, then,” Kira murmurs.

Marin’s phones blares suddenly, a high-pitched wail sustained and shifting from note to note in such a way that Stiles cannot decide if he finds it beautiful or not (“Chinese Opera,” Kira whispers in reply to his confused expression,) before she silences it. “Break’s over,” she says.

“We have to file some reports,” Kira informs Stiles sweetly. “But…” She grabs a napkin, then pulls out a pen and writes up a number. “Here’s my personal cell. Call me if you remember anything else.”

“Will do,” Stiles says, and as soon as the women step out of the café, bell ringing once for Marin, then twice for Kira, he takes a long, overdue sip of his cocoa, pointedly ignoring the sudden ruckus at the counter as Isaac dives into the back room.

…

“Where are we-” Kira manages as Marin drags her into a nearby alley. “The station is-”

“Do you honestly think what you said in there has any weight to it?” Marin whispers swiftly.

The woman nods eagerly. “It makes sense if you think about it. We’ve been looking for an alpha and making no progress,” Kira replies anxiously. “What if the Kanima can be controlled by someone who isn’t a werewolf?”

“Kira, that goes against everything we know about Kanimas.”

“But we don’t know anything about Kanimas!” she insists sharply. “It’s all legends and myths in some dusty old book that must have been translated a million, gajillion times and then rearranged and modified to _rhyme_. The Bestiary says they have wings, right? This thing doesn’t _have_ wings. Which, while disappointing, does say rather a lot about the accuracy of the source material.”

“I don’t know-”

“What is there to be iffy about? The info is wrong. Time to second guess the source material.”

Marin shakes her head uneasily, eyes flicking from the mouth of the alley to the officer before her. “That’s the thing,” she begins softly. “It’s the source material. We’ve been operating on the knowledge from the Bestiary ever since Shifters came out. If this is wrong, there could be a dozen other assumptions we’ve been working under.

“If the Bestiary is wrong this will cease to be a local investigation and fall under the jurisdiction of Statewide – maybe even National force. Not to sound unpatriotic, but they’re not known for delicacy when handling Shifter related cases. From there it’ll be out of our hands, and in future cases we’ll be working from nothing. We will have to rebuild the Human-Shifter relation handbook from scratch.”

Blinking owlishly, Kira stares at her for a long while before asking, “And that’s bad?”

“Starting over would bankrupt the department,” the Inspector admits softly, nervously palming the line of her bulging pocket. A notebook corner peeks from the fabric, and she runs a fingernail along it. “The whole reason we agreed on the Alibi system and the chips was because we had a basic idea of who was committing these murders, but couldn’t afford a full-scale investigation after the use of the SWAT team back in April. In the end it all comes back to money. Money we don’t have. If the bestiary is wrong we’re going to need new rules, new staff, even consulting liaisons. Maybe even translators. Even if it turns out this is the only inaccurate part of the book, if Argent is the killer we’re going to have to throw it out anyway.”

“What?” the officer sputters. “Why?”

“Because Gerard Argent is the one who donated the Bestiary in the first place.”

A heavy silence settles between the two, and Kira bites her lip nervously before admitting, “I feel an ultimatum coming.”

“This is no ultimatum,” Morell mutters softly, turning to face the wide brick wall of the neighboring building. Trash has been piled up the side, spilling haphazardly onto the ground. “The bottom line is we can’t afford to let this killer go another week, and if they’re related to Gerard we’re dead in the water.”

…

“You live uptown, right?”

Stiles jumps, glancing up from the dregs of his cocoa at the man behind him. “Uh-”

“I’ll give you a ride,” Isaac says stiffly, hand twitching idly at his side. “It’s probably not safe for you to take the bus after what happened with that serial killer dude.”

Staring pointedly up at his companion, Stiles resists the urge to say, “You don’t strike me as a ‘dude’ dude.” His mouth pops open uselessly a few times before he manages to murmur, “Yeah, sure. But can I finish my cocoa, first?”

The barista’s jaw goes sharply taut as his teeth creak together before he pries them apart, spitting with surprising indifference, “If you insist,” before stepping out the door. The bell rings four times, bouncing angrily off the glass before slapping against itself, snapping clean off the hinges and clattering to the floor. There is settles, sitting almost innocently against the café tiles, brass shining in the fluorescent lights before Erica snatches it up.

Downing the last of his cocoa, Stiles rises from his seat, fumbling as his phone drops out of his pocket and… pauses. He glances to the napkin, smeared with Kira’s handwriting, that still sits atop the table beneath his mug. Instead of stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Stiles unlocks it, navigating quickly to the contacts section. Pulling up the screen for a new contact, his fingers slide to a pause as he realizes, quite suddenly, that he doesn’t know how to spell officer Yukimura’s name despite having glanced at her nametag several times. With little else to do, he lists her as “Officer Yuki” and grabs up his mug.

The ceramic curve of the handle is a bitter sort of cold, having been ignored so long. His fingernails clink against the logo. It’s begun to wear away; fading to a softer gray around the edges where the center is a stark black. And as Stiles sets it in the dish bucket he finds his eyes drawn to the small wisp of wolf-shaped steam atop the teacup logo. Unbidden, a familiar pair of green eyes rise to his thoughts, and he feels a rush of heat low in his stomach.

With warm memories rolling in his stomach, he bids Erica a quiet goodbye before stepping out the door. Isaac is just outside. He’s relaxing against a mailbox; bright blue with a smudge of green paint along one leg. The man doesn’t seem bothered by the grime that rubs off on his jeans as he straightens. His attention seems to have been brought to a needle-point. And Stiles, oddly enough, is that point. “Ready to go?” he asks, as if it weren’t horribly obvious.

Stiles nods, glancing up at the man he hadn’t noticed until this moment to be several inches taller than himself. The wan, but professional smile is gone entirely, making way for a lazy grimace that paints bright blue eyes and lightly tanned skin like a layer of gray paint. While gray could be comforting, cozy even, in that particular moment the pale tinge to the Shifter’s skin puts Stiles on edge. “Are you okay?” he finds himself asking. He glances from the traffic, which comes screaming around the corner, down the street, and passing behind the Shifter in a wall of sound and chaos, then to Isaac, remaining stoic despite the grating lyrics of the city. He doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I’m great.” The words seem foreign coming out of Isaac’s mouth; as if someone has superimposed them between his teeth. “This way.”

As the man sets off at a brisk pace, Stiles hurries to follow, legs not quite long enough to keep even with his companion as they round the corner into a small employee parking lot sandwiched between two buildings. Isaac strides up to one without hesitating – a sleek, expensive-looking thing in a bright red that Stiles cannot identify. He’s never been a car person, but he has a feeling this particular vehicle might be able to make him one.

“Nice,” he says, somewhat awed. Glancing nervously at Isaac, he fixes his eyes on the blond curls that disappear into the car. “And you don’t mind-”

“Serial killer,” Isaac parrots, then slams the door shut, the entire car wagging back and forth on its tires like a particularly deranged daruma doll.

Hopping forward, Stiles strides up to the car quickly as the engine turns over, pulling open the door and sliding in to the seat just before Isaac pulls out of the spot. He closes the door behind him like a terrifying afterthought. It is only when he drags his seat belt across his chest that he draws to a pause, eyes catching on a particularly mangled strip of metal on the floor. Turning to the older man in the adjacent seat, Stiles frowns. “Wait, how do you know about that?”

Guiding the car out into the street, the Shifter guns the engine, pulling viciously into traffic as his hand twitches against the steering wheel.

Stiles fumbles for his phone, digging it out of his pocket. But just as he unlocks it a large clawed hand descends, ripping it from his grip and pitching it through the window. The glass shatters in a neat, round hole as the device slams through, bouncing once off the sidewalk before skidding into an alley. The man stares after his phone as shock descends, tingling in his fingers and chest. Turning back to his companion, expression hard, his gaze meets with the glittering red eyes of an alpha werewolf. As they pass beneath the shadow of a skyscraper they flash momentarily yellow, and a shiver races up the hostage’s spine. “Where are you taking me?” he demands. “If you were going to kill me you would have done it already.”

“My master wishes to speak with you.” The one who speaks isn’t Isaac. Not exactly. His lips and teeth and tongue shift and smack, but someone else’s voice hangs heavy in the air, cold and hollow. Against the steering wheel his hand twitches forcefully. As they pass out of the shadow of the skyscraper the sun glitters softly across a dark layer of scales before it fades back into the pattern of veins that lay stark beneath the pale skin of Isaac’s hand.

They draw to a pause in traffic, car humming lightly beneath them, and Stiles sinks down into his seat, contemplating how far he might make it on foot if he made a break for it. But as his fingers brush the section of the door where a handle would be – where what might have been a handle at one point, which he notes is the mangled strip of metal between his feet – he realizes suddenly that he has willingly stepped into a stranger’s car, and there is a good chance they are going to kill him.

The car continues down the street as the light turns, and Stiles buries his face in his hands. “Brilliant, Stiles,” he mutters to himself. “You’re an everyday fucking genius.”

…

Kira stares blankly at the cracked phone in her hand, the surface flashing angrily as she waits for the phone to pick up. Along the top is a fine mess of thread-thin fissures that fade into scratches, then wider snaps in the screen. Through the mess “Officer Yuki” stares up at her, accompanied by her personal number and an option to send a message.

Pushing herself off the alley wall, Erica murmurs, “I have to get back to work. Anything else you need?” As a hand comes up, thumb bearing up, she nods and steps out of the alley, avoiding the stream of broken glass in her sky-high stilettos.

The line clicks twice, and a sleepy _“H’llo?”_ floats across the line.

“Hey, Dade, it’s Kira.” There’s a mumbled response. The shift of fabric. The steady click-click-click of a computer keyboard. The woman’s eyes scan over the pattern of cracks along the surface of the phone, then shift to the spray-pattern of shattered glass littering the ground. “I need you to Crash something for me.”

…

As the car finally draws to a stop, preparing to turn into a parking garage, Stiles is surprised to glance outside and find his old apartment complex. “What?” he squeaks, hands launching forward to clutch at the windowsill as he peeks his cast through the hole in the glass. “What are we doing-”

“My master wishes to speak with you.”

Stiles shivers.

Pulling into a spot, Isaac turns off the car and throws his door open, slamming it forcefully in his wake. He strides around the vehicle, posture rigid. Before Stiles can stop himself he’s insisting quickly, “I can get it, I can get it! I can to-otally get it!” Rising up onto his knees, he shoves his arm through the hole in the window. Much to his dismay his arm falls just shy of the handle, the inside of his elbow brushing uncomfortably close to the sharp edge of the broken glass. For a short while he slaps ineffectively at the outside of the door, Isaac staring none-too-amusedly at his fruitless efforts to free himself. As Stiles relents, sliding his elbow, then his wrist and hand, through the car’s gaping wound, Isaac steps forward to pull the door open wide.

Stiles has only once before witnessed a “get out”-cum-bitchface so effective, and the man to which it belongs resides conveniently on the opposite side of the United States.

“Good talk,” the hostage offers weakly, stepping from the car and making his way towards the garage elevators.

In the distance is the squeal of tires. Sharp echoes fill the garage as a large van screams sharply around a corner, sprinting with professional control toward the exit.

When Isaac’s hand swings around Stiles takes off, taking the chance before he can overthink it. His blood is in his ears, rushing through his veins and screeching through his head as his feet hit the concrete. The desperate slap, slap, slap of a man dead set on making it just those few remaining feet to the stairwell. He just manages to close his fingers around the handle before a long arm slaps the door, snapping it firmly shut.

Easing slowly forward, curls dropping down to brush the side of Stiles’ forehead, Isaac hisses angrily, “You’re not very smart.” His voice is a cacophony of slurs; his teeth a mess of razor sharp points glistening threateningly with saliva. Stiles likens it to a knife-like-fungi experiment gone wrong, but manages keeps his mouth shut as the shadow of scales shimmer over the man’s cheeks.

“This way,” Isaac demands, hand slipping down the door to snake around Stiles’ wrist. He holds the younger man close as they move towards the elevators.

It doesn’t take long, once they call it, though Stiles spends a good few seconds hoping maybe it might crash or be frozen on the fourth floor. Instead it opens right up, and in they go. Once inside, the hostage considers slamming his entire face into the help button, but as soon as his eyes light on the control panel scaled fingers slip further around his neck, holding him like a vice before tugging him away from the board.

Then, much to his surprise, Isaac leans forward and presses the button for the eleventh floor. Stiles half expects corny elevator music to start playing.

“You know, this is really anticlimactic,” he admits after a while. “Like, come on. We’re in an elevator, you’re holding my neck like you forgot my leash – irony, man – and some homeless person is probably humping my phone right now, using the data plan to watch porn. How am I not freaking out? Because I’m not freaking out.

“Like, I was kinda freaking out ten minutes ago in the car, but now it’s like… We’re in an elevator. I don’t know if I’m freaking out any more. Maybe it’s shock? Probably shock. I’m definitely in shock.”

Isaac remains silent. It’s probably for the best.

As the elevator ascends, Stiles feels his fingers and toes go numb. “Just the vibrations,” he mutters to himself even as his entire body breaks out into a cold sweat. “Good vibrations,” he sings under his breath.

_Seven._

He really doesn’t want to die.

_Eight._

Will they ever find his body?

_Nine._

Will anyone tell Derek?

_Ten._

Fuck, _Derek_.

_Eleven._

As the elevator draws to a stop and announces their arrival with a cheery ding, Stiles watches as if from a distance as he is pushed from the car and into the hall. It’s an out of body experience of sorts. His hands tingle and his stomach grows heavy and his head bobs from side to side, so light, light, so very light and hollow. Some invisible person has threaded a line of wire through his muscles, dragging everything down into his shoes. Isaac’s hand on his shoulder seems to be the only thing keeping him upright as he stumbles through the familiar hall. Isaac shoves him at a door.

The door opens.

In Stiles’ chest sits a sense of deja vu so potent he’s struck by a wave of bile rising up in his throat. “Where’s Danny? And Malia?” He demands, glancing around as the older man steps away, leading them into the apartment.

“Modern technology,” Gerard drawls with disturbing fondness as the door slips shut behind them with a sturdy click. His finger trails idly along the kitchen counter, dragging across the faux marble before bringing it close to his eyes. For a few tense seconds he scrutinizes the digits. Then, with a soft sigh, he rubs them off against each other and turns to Stiles with a wan grin. “When I was a young man, to avoid unwanted company you had to invest in a warehouse or apartment complex. These days, all you need to do is look at class schedules and be in possession of a sturdy lock pick.”

“Where are they?” Stiles snaps again.

The older man laughs. “Your friends are fine,” he insists humorously. “In fact, they’re more than fine. They’re learning. Unlike you. You’ve dropped…” He trails off, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment before making a face. “...two? Classes in the last twenty-four hours if I’m not mistaken. And you’ve even aggravated a very dangerous man. Would you say those are smart life decisions, Mr. Stilinski?” Gerard turns his attention to his hostage with a wide grin, eyebrows arched curiously.

Slowly, Stiles shakes his head.

“That’s right. I was under the impression– somewhat erroneously, I must admit – that we had come to an understanding,” he drawls. “Do you have any idea what that might have been?”

“The bro code?”

Gerard chuckles. “You’re funny.” He glances amusedly around Stiles, meeting the Kanima’s gaze with a crinkle in his eye. “Isaac?”

A large, cold hand forcefully claps upside Stiles’ unbruised chin, sending him reeling for a few nauseating seconds as his ears ring and his stitches tug at the back of his scalp.

“You’re making it very difficult not to kill you.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“It’s very simple.” His tone is low; dangerous. “I need you to do something for me.”

“And what might that be?” Stiles sneers.

“Get Derek Hale out of his little den for five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

Silence falls for a short moment as the words sink in, and the student shakes his head, shocked. “Derek? What do you want from Derek?”

Gerard chuckles, hand drawing up to cradle his stomach as he leans forward with the motion. “Need? Oh, I don’t want anything from him. I need him dead. Him and every other bitch that locked up my daughter.”

“Then…” Stiles’ head swims, questions rising one after the other in his head, fluttering behind his eyes and fighting past his lips – _one_ fighting past his lips. “Why did you kill the others, then? Why didn’t you just go after whoever got her arrested?”

“Because they wouldn’t help me, of course,” Gerard drawls. “But apparently those beasts are too stupid to put two and two together.”

“Oh my god, you’re literally just a racist psychopath. A racist, mentally unstable octogenarian has been giving the police the run around for weeks. _Oh my god_.”

The man gives a put-upon sigh, stepping up to the balcony window to stare out at the five-star view (of the neighboring building’s brick wall; grimy and crumbling about the edges.) “I had hope for you, Stiles,” he admits softly. “You have all the strings I need. Cora, Derek, Laura – even Malia, who would have had access to Peter, as well. Do you know how few people have contact with her, and to her uncle? All you would have had to do was get closer to her – to any of them, really – and you would have been the perfect agent.”

“You seem to be forgetting that I’m not a fucking psycho,” Stiles points out bitterly.

“That’s your perspective,” Gerard argues softly. “You see me as psychotic because I will go to any length to avenge my daughter. I see you as mislead and simple because you bask in the company of rabid animals. Perspective is a powerful thing, Mr. Stilinski, and all you have to do to survive our meeting is change yours.”

“So I just get him outside and you off him?”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

Hocking angrily, Stiles gathers as much phlegm into his mouth as he can before puckering his lips and sending it flying. It soars in a perfect arc, landing with a wet smack a handful of inches from Gerard’s neatly polished shoes. “Fuck off,” he snarls. (God, Danny is going to have to clean that up. If Stiles survives this, he’s dead.)

Clicking his tongue, head lulling idly from side to side, Gerard smiles amusedly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stilinski. Truly, I am. Isaac?”

There’s a thump of movement behind him, and Stiles spins on his heel to stare up in open alarm at the scaled monstrosity that stands before him. Gone is blond hair and blue eyes; pale skin and chiseled features. In their place is an expanse of scales and cold yellow irises, pupils split and ominous.

“You know what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kidnapping, creepy Kanima stuff, mild violence, themes of possession, and Gerard Argent generally being a dick.


	9. A Round of Applause for Socially Awkward Werewolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that I could not find ample study materials related to certain medical procedures, so do not take anything medical related in this chapter seriously. I might go through some day and rewrite the scenes to be more accurate, but I tried and I failed so I might come back another day and do that. Until then, this chapter will remain as it is.
> 
> Edit: [ThyLadyX](http://thyladyx.tumblr.com/) is the most glorious person to ever glorious and was able to point me to a site that doesn't suck.

“It’s not apartment 712,” Kira breathes. She turns about the room, sweeping the sight of her handgun along the line of the couch, the two wide-open doors, and the small kitchenette before dropping it back to her side. Her finger finds the safety, sliding it into place as her eyes flick around the room on last time. And, finding herself alone, she finally slips her gun into its holster. The velcro screams through the room as she pulls it back, readjusting the hold on her thigh.

_“Well, it’s what I got. 712, registered to Gerard Argent.”_

Pursing her lips, the woman shakes her head, dark ponytail wagging back and forth. “Something tells me the apartment is only a cover.”

_“Here it is. The Yukimura intuition.”_

“Dade-”

_“I’m being completely serious.”_

“Could you not call it that?” she insists sharply.

_“Burn calls it your Sexy Sense.”_

An exasperation groan bubbles from Kira’s throat as her eyes slip shut. Her free hand rises slowly to her face, gently massaging the bridge of her nose. “Do you have anything else on this place?” she asks a bit too sharply, eyebrows rising pointedly. “Vacancies? Cancellations? Quick relocations? Anything.”

_“Anything anything? Or just suspicious anything? Because there’s a family of illegal immigrants on the fourth floor.”_

“Suspicious.”

_“Uh… registered Leopard Seal on the first floor.”_

“Leopard Seal?”

_“Yeah, listed as a pet.”_

“Not what I’m looking for, but good to know.”

_“How ‘bout… apartment 412?”_

“What’s in 412?”

_“A mime.”_

“Dade, we have been through this! Mime is a legitimate occupation in the modern world!”

_“They’re suspicious as fuck, Kira!”_

“Move on!” she snaps, impatient. Her fingers drop from her nose, eyes shooting to the front door. Sidling around a coffee table – cheap, minimalistic, and clean aside from a solitary layer of dust – she makes her way with long strides toward the front door. Her regulation boots thump heavily against the commercial carpeting.

_“Fine. Fine. Uh… Hydroponic garden just down the hall in 718.”_

“I’m pretty sure the entire floor knows,” the officer informs him darkly, tugging open the door with a breathy sigh, nose wrinkling.

_“Okay… I’m running out of stuff.”_

“Anything, Dade. Literally, anything that seems legitimately fishy.” The door closes easily behind her; lock clicking into place with a solitary click.

_“Well, a name was removed from an apartment on the eleventh floor. Wait – two, actually. Both within a month of each other. It’s currently occupied by one college student, but there have been multiple noise complaints pertaining to a recurring guest.”_

“Great,” Kira chirps. “Which apartment?”

_“1125, on the eleventh floor.”_

“Thanks, Dade. I owe you one.”

 _“I’ll hold you to that,”_ he promises.

“Yeah,” she drawls. “I know.” She ends the call with a steady thumb, feet carrying her all-too-casually up to the functional elevator to tap insistently at the up button. Stuffing her phone into a pocket that hangs delicately from her belt, Kira waits patiently for the car to arrive. The gears whir furiously as it approaches. Wires singing and breaks humming softly, it winds to a gentle stop, doors popping open with a pleasant ding. As they glide smoothly into the walls, the woman steps into the car with a tense grin, adrenaline making an appearance rather suddenly in her hands and feet.

Her finger finds the control pad rather quickly, slapping loudly against the small plastic button that reads “|╷,” yellowing around the edges, and growing increasingly pale in the center. Then, far too slow for her taste, the doors begin to amble closed.

Slowly, the lights above the door flick on and off as the car ascends.

On floor eight, a baby screams.

Floor nine, a couple shouts.

There’s six teenagers having a party on floor ten.

Finally, floor eleven arrives, and Kira sprints into the hall as soon as the doors creak apart.

1125 sits near the end of the hall, its door smudged with fingerprints and the curious residue of spaghetti sauce.

Approaching it quickly, the officer settles one hand on the knob; the other on her holstered gun. She draws to a pause, pressing her ear suspiciously to the door as the echo of a voice seeps through the wood.

 _“... you bask in the company of rabid animals. Perspective is a powerful thing, Mr. Stilinski, and all you have to do to survive our meeting is change yours.”_ The voice is deep; age leaves it creaking off into darker tones.

 _“So I just get him outside and you off him?”_ Stiles voice is hardly familiar. It’s twisted and sharp, stress filtering through a bare layer of sarcasm that leaves him with softer consonants and sharper vowels.

_“Now you’re getting the idea.”_

Gargle.

_“Fuck off.”_

_“I’m sorry, Mr. Stilinski. Truly, I am. Isaac?”_ There’s the dull thump of a heavy step, and a soft gasp. _“You know what to do.”_

As Kira reels away from the door, from the other side comes the familiar hollow thud of a body dropping to the floor. Bracing herself on one leg, she takes a slow, calming breath.

An anguished scream pierces the hall. It breaks quickly, dissolving into mumbled whimpers and hisses and swears.

Kira sharply snaps one regulation boot just below the lock once, twice, three times. The force sends her leg vibrating, growing numb. Her fingers go to her artificial leg, snatching the heavy weight of her gun from the holster and bringing up to eye height.

“Police,” she shouts, limping swiftly into the living area with her gun angled for an unfamiliar face. “Hands up!” Her eyes shoot between the man, the couch, the balcony, the Kanima, and the sad lumps that were a pair of legs jutting out from behind the furniture like the pitiful remains of a poorly laid campfire.

“Isaac,” Gerard hisses.

In ten seconds, it all goes to shit.

With a great screech, the creature lunges forward, tail flicking back and forth. It catches a wall, clipping off a line of plaster in its wake. Yet the creature hardly seems to notice. A large claw sweeps upwards, arching through the air on a dead-man’s path toward Kira’s face.

With the practiced shift of weight between her feet, officer Yukimura settles her arms firmly at her sides before her artificial leg sweeps gracefully through the air, sinking her large, regulation boot solidly into the Kanima’s chin without so much as a stammer in her stance. In an instant it falls, eyes rolling up into its head, and as it falls to the floor her eyes light on its Master.

The light scuffs of Gerard’s shoes against commercial carpet grow quick as he sprints quickly to the balcony, grabbing furiously at the lock on the handle.

Hands steady, Kira brings the gun up quickly before her, lines the sight with the man’s torso, and flicks the safety off with years of long practice. “Last warning.”

The click of a poorly oiled lock.

A pained gasp. Low. Familiar. Stiles.

Shrieks of cars and the hiss of a spring breeze.

Gunpowder.

Gerard staggers forward with a shout, hands reaching forward for balance and finding none. He stumbles over the door track, falling onto the balcony, good arm flailing for the handrail. His fingers catch the bare edge of the bar, arm straining to keep him right.

“There’s nowhere to go, Gerard,” the woman calls, voice even and professional. “Hands. Up.”

“Like I would surrender to a wo-” he begins, dragging himself up. But even as his knees begin to find purchase and he rests his weight against the balcony’s edge, the rails give a sharp squeal and tilt.

Kira watches, shocked, as the man drops, accompanied only by the screech of a nearby siren, a far off crack of thunder, and the rusty wail of old screws.

…

White ceiling. No green blob between the eyes. Hands yanking sheets up to stationary armpits.

Stiles groans, hands pushing away the unfamiliar digits as they turn the fabric professionally straight.

“Oh, you’re awake!” the man announces, surprised.

“What happened?” It comes out mostly as a mumble; his throat dry and his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“I’ll get Dr. Crescent.” Brushing short black hair from his eyes, the nurse scurries quickly from the room, eyes fixed oh-so-bravely on the worn linoleum.

Groaning, Stiles pushes himself up on his elbows. The sheet billows as it falls, pooling around his waist with a gentle hiss. But as he lifts his legs in preparation to slide off the bed, there is no response from the world at large. There is no slide of fabric. No bulge of the knees. No crinkle of sheets falling away from his shins and hospital gown as they are vaulted over the bed, as his legs themselves remain stationary.

“Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles’ head rockets up, eyes lighting on a petite woman. “Yes,” he replies. It comes out as a squeak, and he clears his throat.

“You’re really quite lucky,” Dr. Crescent begins brightly, light blue sneakers squeaking minutely against the floor as she steps further into the room. Behind her, the door hisses shut. “The procedure went as planned, and you responded to treatment as quickly as we had hoped. In fact, the bone-”

“Enough of the sugar, please,” Stiles bites out. “Just be honest. Why can’t I feel my legs?”

The doctor’s expression wilts, and her shoulders sag as she glances from Siles to the board in her hand. For a second he watches as the doctor visibly builds herself up, propping up walls he remembers Scott’s mom dropping after a long shift. “You suffered a traumatic spinal cord injury,” she explains softly. “Upon impact, your third and fourth vertebrae were shattered, along with the intervertebral discs around them, and you bled internally for five minutes before paramedics could arrive. They stabilized you as much as they could on the way here. You were taken immediately to the ER, where Dr. Hollander and I had you placed under anesthesia for six hours for surgery.

“There we discovered that the bone had indeed been properly shattered, and that there was no plausible way to stop the bleeding. Shards of your spine had dispersed throughout the softer tissues of your torso. As it generally takes several weeks to arrange for the bite, and your vitals began to drop, it was decided that you would become the recipient of an experimental serum-”

“So I’m a guinea pig now?”

“It’s refined from marrow from Shifter hips-”

“Not exactly how I expected to get my first piece of werewolf ass, but it’ll have to do.”

Dr. Crescent levels him with a sour grimace before the expression drops, giving way to a weak, professional smile. “The serum drew yours spine back together, but the nerves in your legs were severed,” she finishes tersely. “You have four sponsors for the bite, and without it you’re unlikely to ever walk again.” Gripping the clipboard by the clip, she carefully tugs a stapled sheaf of papers from beneath the status page. Stepping smugly forward, she drops it on to Stiles’ lap with a smug grin. “These are all the things you can expect to happen should you decline the bite and persist with your condition. The police should be here shortly.”

Eyes flicking from the packet atop his knees (or what he hopes are his knees,) to the woman now on her way out the door, Stiles squeaks, “The police?”

The door swings in the woman’s wake, slapping shut.

Finding himself alone, Stiles grabs the packet and starts reading.

Then he stops.

Next, he starts again.

Finally, he cries.

…

Stiles is staring out the window when Morell props open the door, holding it politely open for Kira, and then Erica to step into the room. For a long while he stares at them, confused, before murmuring, “Hey.”

A short round of stiff greetings follow, joined by the squeal of wooden legs across linoleum as the officers pull up chairs.

Perching lightly at the edge of his bed, Erica slips her hand in his, squeezing weakly, smile small. “What happened to your face?” she asks softly. “It’s all cast-less and human looking. It’s weird.”

Despite himself, Stiles laughs. Turning to Morell, he inquires, “This is about Gerard, isn’t it?”

The inspector clears her throat. “We need to talk about the case – start to finish.”

Reaching into a messenger bag at her side, Kira retrieves a short stack of papers.

“We are the only living people who have seen the Kanima along with its Master and known who they are,” Morell continues. “begins evenly. “It stands to reason that we might be the only people able to piece this together.”

“What? Like a game of Clue, but upside down?” Stiles hears himself suggesting, earning giggles from Erica and Kira.

Morell hides a small smile. “Before we get started, could you possibly tell us anything you might have learned from your encounter with Gerard?”

Pulling himself forward with his hands, Stiles reaches back to push his pillow against the headboard. He gives it a few extra pats just for good measure. Then, satisfied it wouldn’t fall over, he grabs at the rails of the frame and drags himself up against it. “Pretty much open and shut revenge plot,” he tells her solemnly. “Apparently his daughter got arrested and the Hales were involved. Apparently getting them alone was an issue.”

Nodding slowly, Morell turns to look at Yukimura, hands steepled delicately on her knees. “That should put a few things into perspective, do you think?”

“Definitely,” the other officer agrees.

The inspector nods. “Then let’s start with page one.”

Nodding once, Kira shifts forward in her chair, bending over the sheaf in her lap with squinted eyes. “The first victim was Aimee Teegarden. 25 years old, five-foot-seven, human. She was found in an alley just off Flushing. At first her case was considered an open and shut mugging, but the autopsy contradicted this. An incision at the back of her neck contained a small amount of a rare paralytic the NYPD had never before encountered. Not two weeks later, a man named Matt Lanter was found in that same alley with the same paralytic in his system and an incision at the back of his neck. Lanter was 32, five-foot-ten. There was a single knife-wound to his stomach, no signs of struggle, and passerby heard nothing.

“Lights were installed at the scene for insurance reasons by the bakery next door. No more bodies were found until Grey Damon, 27, six-foot-two, and a cat Shifter, was discovered in his apartment. Same M/O. No injuries aside from the knife wound and the incision. Upon further investigation it was revealed that all the victims knew each other from a Shifter-Human Support Group at the nearby college.”

“More than that,” Erica adds. “They were good friends of Laura.”

Morell and Yukimura share a look before the officer continues. “After this came Chelsea Gilligan, 24, and Greg Finley, 31. Both were found within a day of the other with the same incision on the back of their neck and the knife wound to the torso. However, Finley was the first to break the pattern. His face was beaten, as well as his stomach, and several fingers had been broken – most likely from a hammer. Gilligan was found in a dumpster. Finley, in a shipping container in the yard where he worked. Both were Wolf shifters.”

Erica nods. “Also regulars. They spent a lot of time with Derek. At one point he and Chelsea were a thing, but that was about two years ago.”

“Gerard was either getting sloppier or more thorough,” Morell points out. “Started employing torture because his victims wouldn’t reveal information under the promise of being killed.” She nods to Kira. “Next page.”

There’s a brief round of silence as the papers flutter beneath the officer’s hand. Then Kira continues. “Briana Palencia, a bird Shifter, and Natalie Hall, a swan shifter. Neither of them are American – from Honduras and Canada, respectively.”

“They were the two people who approached Cora after she returned from Argentina,” Erica puts in. “They came in to Café Shifter often. Whenever Natalie wasn’t there, Cora and Briana would only speak in Spanish.”

“We should have brought you in on this sooner,” Morell sighs under her breath.

“Palencia and Hall were both found, beaten and dead, under the docks just off Terminal 5. Their wounds were consistent with Finley’s: broken fingers, beaten face, and bruises along the stomach,” Kira reads off slowly. “However, they showed signs of fighting back. Bruised knuckles, defensive bruises along their arms, and what would have been enough dead skin for DNA evidence under their fingernails if they hadn’t been dumped in the water. After that, we stopped finding people in pairs.

“Malese Jow was next. Five-foot-four, 24 years old, and human. She was the first person we found in your old apartment complex.” This she says directly to Stiles. “Same as Finley, she had a stab wound to the stomach, an incision on the back of their neck, and was severely beaten. However, unlike anyone before Palencia and Hall, she had been moved.”

“Do you know Jow?” Morell asks Erica.

Finger’s playing with the edge of the paper, Kira retrieves a small shot of a young asian woman with long, dark hair, and holds it up for inspection.

Erica shakes her head, blonde curls bobbing. “No, I don’t.”

“It was likely a threat to Malia – an ill-made one, but a threat none-the-less,” Morell announces. She turns to her companion with a weak grin. “You can just summarize the rest.”

Officer Yukimura nods, then turns another page. “After this was Titus Makin Jr., Jesse Luke, Johnathon Schaech, Victoria Gabrielle Platt, Merie Dandridge, and Dora Madison Burge. All of them were found in or around the apartment complex in apartments that were in the midst of transition. People moving in or out, or currently attending school. In the case of Burge we managed to arrive on the scene, as a neighbor reported a noise complaint and a SWAT team was called. The suspect – who we now know to be Isaac Lahey under the influence of Gerard Argent – escaped on foot, headed toward flushing, and then disappeared.”

“He didn’t disappear,” Erica offers softly. “He came to the café. He was acting really weird, and wanted to work. I said he could cover for me if he really wanted, so… he did.”

“And that’s why we lost his trail,” Morell finishes softly.

“Must be.”

Glancing down at the papers when their party dissolves to silence, Kira sighs. “Last was Laura.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watches Erica deflate.

“Laura Jamie Hale, 23, five-foot-nine, found in a bathroom with two bags of groceries. There were no signs of torture, but there was the paralytic in her system, and she had been-”

“Can we not?” Erica snaps.

Kira glances up, and nods solemnly.

Morell leans back in her chair, and her eyes land on the blonde woman with grim determination. “What we learned from this case was that the killer was desperate. They were aware they would not get another chance like this for a long time, and they – Gerard – was willing to take risks to get her, unlike the other victims, who he took from dark streets on their own. Opposed to the way he hid the others, he placed her in public. Left her right where he found her, and because of that we caught the Kanima on video. When we got the footage we weren’t sure it was a Kanima at all. According to legend they’re were-jaguars, not lizards. But when we checked her call history we knew.”

“Her call history?” Stiles asks.

Kira shuffles the papers, then glances through the file. “At precisely 4:15 PM on April 23rd, 2016, Laura J. Hale placed a phone call. All she managed to do was leave a very short message before the line cut out. It was to her brother, Derek. The call consisted of one line, as her brother did not pick up the phone. The line was, ‘It’s a Kanima.’”

“Wait, why didn’t she call the police?” the man gripes weakly.

“Because she knew it was Isaac.”

All at once, everyone turns to look at Erica.

“Laura told us to give Isaac space after he was bitten. Said he was special. Couldn’t transform.” Erica purses her lips. “After that she started locking herself up in her apartment with Derek, and almost all of her excursions into town were either shifted or in pairs. Derek, of course, copied her.”

“Why? ‘Cause they’re siblings? I never got that.”

Leaning forward, Kira looks his straight in the eye and tells him, “Stiles, they weren’t just siblings. Laura and Derek were twins.”

“Shifter twins share a certain bond,” Erica explains. “You hear stories all the time about twins getting this sixth sense and stuff, and Laura and Derek were no different. I don’t think you ever caught them together, but sometimes they were like magnets. She was probably expecting him to know she was talking about Isaac. But even if he did, as much as I love Derek he’s not exactly the sharpest crayon in the box.”

“Back on the main topic,” Morell interjects quickly, “you were the final case. You had been kidnapped, moved, and beaten. However, there was no paralytic in your system.”

Stiles gapes. “What made me so different?”

“It must have been something that happened around that time. Maybe to you, or Derek, or Gerard-”

“Or Isaac,” Erica realizes aloud.

“Did something happen?” Morell asks.

“Laura happened,” she clarifies. “Laura was our Alpha. She could feel things about everyone in the pack. Our feelings. Sometimes, even our thoughts. Alphas are made when the power is passed down to the most worthy pack member, and Kanimas are born because a pack member’s lonely, right? So what if one were to become an Alpha?”

“They’re supposed to be mutually exclusive,” Kira pieces together, “or they cancel each other out.”

“Isaac didn’t paralyze you because he couldn’t,” Erica continues. “And that’s why you were able to get away.”

“That, and a lucky butt dial,” Kira adds.

“So you’re saying I’m alive because of Laura,” Stiles breathes.

Erica nods. “Probably.”

…

_“Sorry I can’t make it.”_

“I get it, dad,” Stiles replies softly. “It’s short notice.” His voice is breathy; amused. It floats from his chest like a gentle breeze, warm and overflowing with affection.

_“I’m still sorry.”_

Adjusting the phone further up his shoulder, the man glances up and down the hallway. Much like before, it remains empty. He glances at a clock. Watches the hour hand as it inches slowly past the twelve. I wonder if Derek’s awake.

 _“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”_ his father prompts down the line.

A few tense seconds pass, and Stiles admits, “Maybe.”

_“Go ahead, son.”_

He opens his mouth, eyebrows drawing together and fingers playing with the long cord between them. “I, uh…” he begins uneasily. “I’m kind of in a relationship. I think.”

 _“You think?”_ the older man teases. _“How do you ‘think’ you’re in a relationship?”_

“Well, I was kind of kidnapped after we said we were dating, so things might be… I don’t know.”

_“What’s her name?”_

“Derek.”

Another tense silence passes, and there’s the nervous shifting of fabric on the other end of the line. _“Stiles, are you trying to tell me you’re bisexual?”_

Stiles sighs. “Can we just skip the labels please, dad? It’s confusing enough being in a relationship without dealing with a bunch of really stupid ‘check here’ boxes.”

_“In that case, when I come up to visit I expect a home cooked meal.”_

“You know, you can’t come to New York and not get pizza,” Stiles diverts quickly.

_“Meat lovers?”_

“Yes,” he agrees all too quickly.

_“What do you want?”_

“Trust me, dad. Just… don’t.”

 _“So is that all?”_ the man prompts one more. _“Boyfriend, wheelchair, catching a serial killer, dropping out of Calculus?”_

“Yeah,” Stiles replies with surprising ease, humor worming into his voice. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

_“In that case, you should get to sleep. It’s after midnight where you are.”_

“Yeah, I know.”

_“I love you.”_

“I love you too, Dad.”

…

“Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles glances up from the small book Erica had loaned him – The King and Pan – to peer curiously at the nurse’s assistant from before, blinking confusedly at the wide open door. “Is something wrong?” he finds himself asking, but even now it sounds far away.

“I’m here to change your bedpan and install your catheter,” they tell him softly, voice soothing and calm. “And I’ll be showing you how to change it, should you need one.”

“Why would I need a catheter?” Stiles asks curiously, eyes wide.

But as the CNA reaches into his sheets to retrieve the bedpan, his face flushes as shock floods his chest and freezes his lungs. The uneven, half broken sloshing of liquid seems to fill the room, and Stiles can feel himself gagging.

“It’s perfectly normal,” the CNA assures him. “The doctors still aren’t sure if it’s a reaction to your nerves being severed or if it’s the trauma. It might not even be permanent.”

Weakly, Stiles nods.

“Now, would you come with me to the bathroom? I’m going to show you how to change them.”

…

 

Taking a bus with a wheelchair, Stiles finds, is difficult as fuck. There’s a bunch of twisting involved, the wheelchair has to be sat somewhere, and there’s a lot of fussing with the wheels to get them in the right place so you aren’t sliding everywhere. He figures it’ll get easier over time: getting into cars; riding up inclines that seem much steeper when you can’t stop; buses. All of this made far more awkward by the fact that his clothes had been cut away, and the only spares the hospital had laying around were a small pair of Juicy sweats and a threadbare pair of socks.

And, seeing as he hadn’t taken his wallet with him the day he left, Stiles barely manages to beg some bus money off a nurse. Naturally, this is barely enough to get him to Flushing.

…

With the sky clear and the sun bright against his bare chest, Stiles wheels himself awkwardly up the street towards Scott’s apartment, attempting to ignore the pointed stares from everyone he passes.

“Great,” he finds himself muttering at a crossing. “I’m a walking circus show.”

It takes him four blocks to recognize the irony.

…

If it weren’t for the light beneath the door, Stiles would think Scott wasn’t home.

Sitting quietly in the hallway, Stiles gives his friend’s apartment door a few more solid knocks before glancing from one side of the hallway to the other. Finding himself alone, he braces his hands against the sides of his wheelchair, scooting forward until he sits at the edge. legs hanging limply in both directions. Then, taking hold of the door knob for balance, he reaches slowly for the doormat. He has to stop three times. Twice to stop himself from falling. A third time to engage the brakes on his chair so it doesn’t attempt to fly out from beneath him again.

On the fourth attempt, his middle finger finds the little bit of metal beneath the rug. He lifts the small key to the light for inspection. Finding the little bit of glue stuck between the teeth, he digs it out with his fingernail before sliding it into the knob. There’s the gentle click of tumblrs, and the light creak of old parts. When he pulls the key free he grabs at it, throwing the door open wide before adjusting himself in his seat and wheeling in.

He finds Scott immediately, slaving over a steaming pot on the stove.

“You don’t cook,” he finds himself saying first. “What happened?”

The older man scoffs. “You’d know if you’d pick up your _stupid_ phone.” Stirring the pot cautiously with one hand, Scott reaches casually for a drawer, gripping the handle before yanking it clean off. He screeches to a halt. Stares accusingly at the small knob.

“I don’t have a phone anymore,” Stiles informs him quietly. “Sorry, man.”

“Stiles, I-” the Shifter begins, turning his eyes from the handle to the man in the entryway. But as his eyes light glaze over the chair his throat swells, eyes burning and hands twitching. “Oh my god.”

“Yup.”

Dropping the ladle fully into the pot, Scott strides up to his side before stopping just short of the chair. “Oh my god,” he says again. “I don’t even-”

“Dude, did you just drop that ladle in there? Allison is going to kill you.”

“Allison and I broke up.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rose. “Jesus.”

“But that’s not…” Scott trails off, eyes drifting back and forth between the chair, to Stiles, to his unmoving legs. “I’ll break down again tomorrow. Right now you need to tell me what happened.”

So Stiles does. He keeps talking until the sun goes down. Until Stiles’ throat is raw and Scott is starting to shift uncomfortably on the loveseat. Until he runs out of things to say and Scott, to fill the silence, points out that Stiles’ hair is still all uneven from those stitches he got a few days back. Stitches that are long gone.

“I’ll just go to the barber or something,” Stiles says, running a hand through the uneven bits.

“Or,” Scott suggests. “I have some trimmers in the bathroom. I could do it for you, if that’s okay.”

And, after a long while, Stiles nods.

So Scott, ever the best friend, wheels Stiles into the bathroom and buzzes his head. His hands are steady and sure with the trimmers. His fingers are gentle with Stiles’ scalp. When the last of his hair falls to the floor and Scott whispers, “Want to watch X-women, Professor?” Stiles begins to cry.

Scott holds him all through the first movie, then the second, staying up late into the night despite both of them being very aware that he has a class at 8AM.

…

Clad in one of Scott’s smallest shirts and a pair of jeans that took thirty minutes to get on, Stiles sets off up the road armed with a day-pass worth of cash and a bitter grimace. The sun is beating down, his pants keep catching on the oddest things, everyone keeps staring, and god forbid he go two seconds without skinning the insides of his wrists on a wheel.

And then he heads downhill.

And this?

This is fun.

After the initial shock of, “Shit! What’s happening? I’m moving on my own! What’s going on?!” and the general freak out that followed of, _“I’m losing control!”_ Stiles manages to learn the subtle art of, “Kinda grabbing the wheel things.”

He coasts slowly down the sidewalk with little effort, stopping before the bus stop with a wide, smug grin that is two parts pride, six parts childish glee.

This quickly disappears when half the bus gives him the stink eye when it arrives, lowering the wheelchair lift with piercing beeps.

…

Towering brick and polished glass are what Stiles’ wheels up to, and he is greeted by a card slot. A slot to which the key is four floors above, sitting deep in his wallet, in the depths of his pants from four days prior. So, with not much else to do, he turns to the phone pad and stares.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “Crazy amnesiac grandma, Marcus is coming.” Staring up at the pad, he glances quickly between them, attempting to recall the events from nearly two months prior. His eyes flick back and forth from seven to nine. But when no memory surfaces he holds out his arm and whispers, “Eenie, meenie, miny, moe,” finger tracing a line between seven through nine. “Catch a tiger by his- oh, fuck it.” Jamming his finger into the nine, he waits patiently for the call to connect.

It rings four times before the line clicks twice and a gruff silence rings through the speakers.

Stiles stares up at it for a long moment, eyeing the small holes barraging him with white noise. “Hello?” he calls, curious.

“Stiles?”

“De-” He chokes. “Derek? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” the voice replies weakly. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Super,” he murmurs back, mentally kicking himself. Super? God, twelve year olds are cooler than me. “Could you, uh, buzz me up?”

“Yes.” Derek’s voice is a bit eager, squeaking at the end, and then the door is popping open with a buzz.

The lobby is just as richly furnished as Stiles remembers, though there seems to be a new painting. When he steps into the elevator it feels wide and spacious and comforting, the mirrors reflecting into eternity. And when he steps out into the hallway he’s practically giddy, wheeling down to the apartment. Giddy and scared.

So scared.

But before he can reach for the door it’s flying open, revealing a flushed and anxious Derek. His hair is askew; his eyes crazed and his beard unkempt.

They stand there in silence for a while before Stiles grins weakly. "I'm home."

Derek stares down at him in shock, eyes flicking from the wheelchair, then pointedly to the hand retreating from the door. He steps aside, holding the door wide open for Stiles to wheel into the apartment.

It feels oddly empty as Stiles moves into the room, and he turns to his boyfriend with a wan smile. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm just... adjusting,” he admits softly.

Stiles flushes.  "Yeah, I guess the chair-"

"No, I…” He clears his throat. “I thought you were here for your stuff."

Suddenly the color drains from the younger man’s face, his eyes locked on Derek’s. "Are you kicking me out?"

“What? No!” Derek says it all too quickly, panic overtaking him. "I wouldn't do that."

“Then why?”

“The police filled me in. The killer – they were after me. And you protected me. And now you…” He trails off, eyes once again going to the chair.

“It's not your fault, Derek.”

The Shifter rolls his eyes. “Don't pull a Jill Hunting on me.”

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” Stiles drawls. “You're standing there telling me you expected me to move out because some psycho was after you and I became collateral damage. But you know who wasn't collateral damage? Laura. Laura wasn't collateral damage, because he was after her, too. Just like Cora.

“He was going after everyone in your family, Derek. Every last one, very literally. And you know what? I happen to like Cora. I really miss Laura. And, in case you hadn't noticed, I really, really like you. So I'm glad that fucker fell off the balcony and snapped his spine properly instead of just half-assing it like I did, okay? We're both alive and that's all the fucking matters, okay?”

The moment weighs on them both, overbearing and thick, until Derek lets out a long breath and a small, delicate smile. “Okay,” he agrees. “Okay.”

“Now... There are a few things we probably both have to be aware of, now.” Reaching into the small manilla envelope at his side, Stiles retrieves a sheaf of papers, brandishing them at Derek. “This is a list of things we can expect or need to look out for.”

Nodding darkly, the older man takes the stack dutifully, retreating quickly to the kitchen table and taking a seat. Stiles wheels quickly up to it, only to find the top reaches halfway up his chest.

Derek chuckles. "Looks like we need a new table."

Stiles feels a flush high on his cheeks.

The Shifter flips through it once quickly, looking over the labeled sections, then goes through and reads the packet in full. He’s walkway through when he drops it to the table, leans back in his chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Looks like you reached the Viagra part,” Stiles notes. “I cried when I saw that.”

Leaning forward, Derek picks up the packet once more, reading the section aloud. “Spinal cord injuries with nerve damage have a chance of resulting in Erectile Dysfunction,” he narrates slowly. “Erections after such a point may be painful, uncomfortable, rare, or difficult to maintain. Prescriptions for Viagra are often suggested for such patients.” Dropping the papers back to the table, he closes his eyes and whispers, "Shit."

Stiles, for once, has no rpely.

It’s only after a few minutes of tense silence that Derek picks the packet back up, looking through it slowly before muttering, “Okay.”

The younger man frowns. “What?”

“Okay. We're officially in this together.”

“Uh-”

Derek rises from his seat, striding quickly into the kitchen. "Are you hungry? I need to stab something."

Stiles wheels after him, eyes wide. "Are you serious?"

“Deadly. Chicken or pork?”

The archway to the kitchen is wide; just wide enough for a wheelchair to fit comfortably, Stiles is happy to discover, and it offers a delightful vantage point from which to watch Derek cook.

He’s moving with a bit too much aggression. He’s slicing clean through chicken breast with a knife Stiles knows from experience is about as sharp as a stuffed animal. Tearing kale to pieces with his bare hands. And if they need a new cutting board, it was long overdue anyway. It isn’t long before Derek is helping Stiles onto the couch, propping him up on pillows and presenting him with tasteless chicken breast and oversalted kale that’s a bit on the black side. And when they finish, Stiles leans forward as best he can, setting the plate on the coffee table with a grin.

“Thanks for dinner,” he tells the older man sweetly.

A blank nod is his reply.

Stiles rolls his eyes, then brings his hand up pointedly. Snapping his fingers, he grins amusedly as the man jumps, then turns his way. “I think someone deserves a kiss.”

Derek blinks up at him, confused.

Reaching forward, Stiles grips his boyfriend’s shoulders, attempting to drag him up. But as his leg twists dumbly against the couch his balance pitches, and he’s thrown sideways. Warm arms meet his side, dragging him upright and settling him back on the couch. “I'll get used to that eventually,” he assumes amusedly.

Settling large hands on the younger man’s thighs, Derek asks hesitantly, “Do they hurt?”

Stiles purses his lips, then shrugs. “Can’t feel them, to be completely honest.”

“Oh…” He glances down, eyes settling firmly on the legs twisted oddly on the cushions, only for the light brush of fingers against his chin to guide him upwards.

“That kiss?” Stiles reminds him suddenly.

Despite his awkwardness, Derek grins. He leans forward, pressing a soft peck to Stiles' cheek.

Stiles sighs. “I was going to kiss _you_ ,” he complains. “You made dinner. That's, like, a thing couples do, right?”

Derek chuckles, then leans forward expectantly. There’s the lightest pressure against his cheek, and a hand on his hip, and then it hits him. So when Stiles pulls away he asks, “You might not be able to get an erection, but what about your prostate?"

Stiles makes a pinched face.

“If you don't want to-”

“Derek, I'm pretty sure I'll be depending on catheters for a while.”

“I…” He trails off, then looks Stiles in the eye. “Can they be removed?”

“Yeah, but for a while it's going to be…” He sighs. “Well, it's going to be messy. And I might need your help until I can get things arranged for a nurse. If I can even afford a nurse.”

“You're not in this alone, you know.”

“If you're implying what I think you're implying, no, you're not paying for a nurse for me.”

“Stiles-”

“That would bring us unusually close to sugar-daddy territory and I can just tell you right now that while a relationship like that is completely and totally acceptable, I have this horribly crippling case of 'I dun wanna' that would make it difficult.”

Derek’s mouth falls open, jaw working on its lonesome for a short moment, the words, “I could just marry you,” burning at the tip of his tongue, only for his teeth to click together as his lips slip closed.

Maybe that isn’t the best thing to say.

“We should put these away,” Stiles points out, waving one hand distractedly towards their plates.

“Yeah, probably,” Derek agrees.

Taking hold of his plate, Stiles leans forward tentatively to place it atop Derek’s on the table. The couch squeaks as he moves, and groans as his hands find purchase in their cushions after, attempting to shift himself off its mass. But as his legs refuse to follow he rolls his eyes. His fingers curl beneath the unmoving knees, dragging them off the cushions and dropping them so that his feet bounce softly on the cushy carpet.

“Do you need help?”

“Only if I fall,” Stiles insists quietly. “And even then, I need to learn to get up from that, too.”

So Derek watches in silence as Stiles lifts himself into his chair – a slow and gruelling process – and settles his legs in the footholds.

Grabbing the plates, Stiles settles them on his lap before wheeling into the kitchen, grin bright on his face as he grabs at the handles moving himself through the wide archway. He throws an aborted glance at the sink before thinking better of it. Turning to the dishwasher, he pulls it wide open, placing the plates on the lowermost rack before sliding it shut. Then, for a long moment, he stares at the still open door.

“Need help?” Derek asks again.

“Nah,” Stiles replies amusedly. “I’m just figuring we could tie a string from the handle to the counter so it would be easier to grab or something.” Fingers wrapping around the armrest of his chair, he engages the lock and leans forward, flipping the door up without much difficulty. “I’m kind of good at...” he begins, pausing to yawn, “... this.”

“Okay, [Chief](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chief_%28comics%29). Let’s take a nap.”

“But it’s only…” Stiles squints at the clock above the stove, the light flashing twelve. “Dude, did the power go out while I was gone?”

“Someone hit the breaker,” Derek tells him amusedly. “It’s about two.”

The younger man yawns again, eyes squinting shut. “It’s only two.”

“Thus the nap.”

Stiles watches the man stride out of the kitchen, rolling his eyes, but following none-the-less. But as he approaches the door frame he stares at it accusingly, then grabs at the sides of his wheelchair, partially folding it in.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, yanking off his shirt.

“Fitting through the door,” Stiles replies glibly, grabbing at the wheels and rolling through the frame with a giggle. “Haha. Take that.”

The Shifter snorts.

“You love it, you know,” Stiles teases, making his way towards the bed. Bending forward, he pulls off Scott’s shirt. He considers for a moment throwing it to the floor, but lays it on the arm of the chair instead. Gone are my _days of being a slob_ , he realizes silently. “I might need help getting on the bed,” he admits.

Striding forward, Derek slips his hands beneath Stiles’ armpits, lifting him clean out of the chair and setting him on the bed. Nudging his face closer to his boyfriend’s, he breaks into a grin.

“Did you really just want to make out?” Stiles asks giddily.

The man only nods, leaning forward to press their lips insistently together. His fingers are gentle at Stiles’ back. Noses clash, free of casts and injury.

A wave of heat strikes the younger man’s chest. It rises and pulses, screaming praises and whispering regret at losing this a single day. His hands find Derek’s neck, sliding up and down the skin found there and earning a bare rumble of affection in reply. As the man pulls away to mouth at his neck, Stiles laughs. “Like that?”

Breathing heavily through his nose, the Shifter pulls away with a nod, then taps his boyfriend’s sternum with a playful grin. “Sleep,” he says before circling the bed, hopping up on his own side.

Stiles laughs as he drags himself up the bed, pulling down the blankets and arranging himself awkwardly beneath them. At first it’s awkward. It feels strange to lay down with no feeling in his legs. But then Derek’s arm winds around his waist, pulling him close, and his body moulds itself around Stiles’ like it were being made to fit there.

And then the anxiety disappears.

...

Out the window, the sun is steadily setting, and as Stiles slowly wakes it shifts into his eyes. He groans, hand slapping over his face as his body screams and screams and screams.

God, he needs to go to the bathroom.

Reaching out blinding with one hand, he swings his arm from side to side, attempting to find his wheelchair, only to find an unending sea of bed. Squinting against the light, he groans. Somehow, throughout the evening, Derek had dragged him to the center, tucking him deep into the pocket of the blankets.

He turns and glances briefly at the man, eyes tracing the sleep softened features and painstakingly sculpted facial hair.

And they kind of belong to each other.

The thought is terrifying. Practically overwhelming. Stiles puts it out of his head, grabbing the man’s hand and lifting it from his waist with an awkward expression.

Beside him, the man groans. “What-”

“Just going to the bathroom,” Stiles assures him quickly, pushing himself up onto his hands before “walking” rather slowly to the edge of the bed. He leans forward, grabbing at the wheelchair to bring it close before sliding his legs off the edge of the comforter one at a time. There’s a trick to getting into the chair from there. A trick Stiles obviously does not know, seeing as he falls to the floor with a cry.

“Do you-”

“Need to learn!” Stiles insists, grabbing at the wheel and dragging himself into the seat. He props his feet into place with a grimace. Then he disengages the lock. Finally, he wheels into the bathroom with a large sense of accomplishment. Closing the door firmly behind him, he contemplates attempting to pee from the chair before realizing that it might be best to keep acrobatics to a minimum.

It’s only when he gets Scott’s pants open that he remembers the catheters.

He’s quick to locate the bags, freeing them from the folds of denim with a skeptical expression. But when he pops the top from the tube and holds it open over the toilet, the liquid pours quickly out. And yet the sensation remains. “Huh,” he muses, confused. “Must be a blockage.” Reaching behind his chair, he grabs quickly at the small bag affixed to the handles, pulling it out to reveal a series of tubes, a balloon, a few foley backs, and a syringe. His fingers quickly wrap around the syringe, undoing the protective plastic bag and sliding off the cover around the needle.

Staring down at the small V in the tube connecting to the bag, he inserts it quickly into the short, stubby port, tugging slowly on the plunger. He watches in amusement as it fills steadily with water. Then, with trepidation, he grips his penis with one hand – erect, he notes idly, maneuvering to place himself in front of the toilet – and the tube with the other, drawing it out as the CNA had dictated, in one long, steady pull.

And yet the sensation remained.

As carefully as he can manage, and with as much care as one would take with a razor, he eases his penis over the edge of the toilet and stares down at it in awe as he slowly relaxes and…

Everything is normal.

And his dick is still erect.

“You’re taking a while,” Derek notes from the other side of the door after Stiles has begun to mop up the mess, tossing the tubes and the bags swiftly in the trash. “Do you need any help?”

“I don’t need my catheters,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

“That’s great news.” A smile shines through his voice; breathy and amused. A bit sleepy.

“Derek, I have an erection.”

Silence.

“What?”

“Derek,” he repeats slowly. “I. Have. An. Erection.”

“You-”

_“I have an erection!”_

The door flies open, and Derek stares down at him, eyes wide. “You have an erection,” he gasps.

Nodding happily, Stiles enthuses, “I totally do.”

“You have an erection,” the Shifter marvels again. Burying his hands in his hair, he laughs. “You have an erection!”

From the wall comes a mighty thump. _“Our bathrooms are right next to each other you know!”_

“Look,” Stiles begins, attempting to tug his boxers over his ass without getting up from the toilet. “I'm gonna finish up in here, okay? This is a little embarrassing.”

“Well, uh…” Derek begins, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Do you… want to take advantage of it?”

With the boxers halfway up his shins, the younger man freezes. “What?”

“The booklet said this might not happen too often,” the man explains slowly.

“... Yeah?”

“Sex,” he clarifies. “Would you, uh…” He pauses again, flushing. “Would you like to have sex?”

“Yes, yes. Yes,” Stiles replies all too eagerly. “Are you even asking that question? Because yes.”

“C-cool,” Derek stutters, eyes flicking from Stiles’ erection to the drawer left of the sink before striding up to it, tugging it open.

“What, what-”

Reaching into the drawer, the Shifter retrieves a small balloon-shaped length of rubber attached to a long spout.

“Isn’t that a turkey baster?”

“No,” the older man clarifies shyly. “It’s a douche.”

“Oh…” Stiles mutters softly. “It’s that just French for shower?”

“No – well, yes, but it’s also… It cleans out your… butthole.”

“For… anal sex?” The words come out slowly. Hesitantly. As if they will scare off the man, the douche, and the toilet holding him up. “Like… up the butt sex?”

The glarification that follows as Derek’s face turns a violent shade of red is both memorable and adorable. “Yes, Stiles,” he deadpans. “Up the butt sex.”

“Okay…” Stiles swallows heavily. “Sure. Yes. I will… I will meet you in there.” He waves his hands vaguely in the direction of the room, eyes staring pointedly at the mirror behind his boyfriend, focusing somewhere above his left ear. Tugging his underwear off his ankles, he strips off his shirt as well, dropping it to the floor before climbing into his chair, wheeling quickly into the bedroom and throwing himself on to the bed. He props himself up on the pillows, propping his hands idly on his stomach in preparation to wait.

This gives him an unprecedented view into the bathroom.

Derek’s pants drop to the floor, revealing long, well muscled legs thick with hair. His shirt is shucked along with Stiles’, dropping to the linoleum with the silent rustle of well-loved fabric. Soon to follow are his boxers, and Stiles finds little to no attraction there. For a long, tense moment he wonders why he’s doing this. Is it convenient? Is he even actually attracted to Derek?

It is then that his eyes drift lower, and he watches with rapt attention as the Shifter’s toes play with the edges of his socks. The fabric dips lower and lower, falling beneath the line of his ankles and revealing small strips of skin at a time. In his chest rises that familiar warmth, tickling his throat and bubbling up in his chest.

 _I love him_ , he realizes as the man fights to get the small, offending articles off, giving up with his toes and drawing his knees up to twist them off with his fingers. _I think I love him._

And it’s hard to breathe.

Hard to think.

Hard to imagine anything with or without the feeling in his chest, as though it’s been there forever. And maybe that’s a different kind of attraction all its own.

He watches Derek insert the long tube inside himself, frowning lightly as the lubed end breaches him, then glancing Stiles way. Slowly, a small, delicate smiles branches across his lips, taking root in the corners of his eyes and branching into the shadows of his jaw.

Stiles zones out for a bit, staring into space as the revelation washes over him. So when the mattress dips beneath him and Derek is sliding up to him, pressing his fingers into the seam of his ass, the younger man gasps. It’s something neither nonsensical nor meaningful, his hands clenching tight in the comforter, and Derek laughs again.

His laugh.

Stiles wants to bottle it and keep it under his pillow.

Their first kiss in this capacity is tentative. Slow. Eager to keep chaste and easy. But as Derek’s hands reach for Stiles’ groin there’s a brush of tongue. Neither of them are sure where it comes from, but suddenly it’s there, and they’re pulling away with twin shy gasps.

“Are you ready?” Derek asks.

“Are you?” Stiles fires back with a giggle.

The man nods, shockingly sober. He seems to hesitate, then leans forward, pressing the tip of his nose against Stiles’ before dragging it enticingly along the side and up the bridge, tracing the line of his eyebrow before peppering the darkest of the man’s moles with soft kisses. “Yes,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” Stiles echoes.

Slowly, the Shifter slides his knees forward to rest on either side of Stiles’ hips, leaning back

For the first time, Stiles hands come away from the mattress. They shoot up to bracket the man’s hips, attempting to hold the larger, stronger man steady even as he begins to sink down.

“Slow down,” he insists. Then, again, “Slow down.”

“Okay,” Derek gasps.

They stay like this for what seems like hours, Stiles’ hands on his hips, Derek remaining upright as he labors for breath. Then, after a while, he begins to sink.

A gasp meets the room, joined by the whisper of a curse.

When their hips meet, the Shifter leans forward, sealing their lips together with a hint of a promise in his hands as they slip from the mattress to meet Stiles’ hands on his hips. He holds them gently in place. And when he rises back onto his haunches his fingers move. They urge the digits beneath his to move. To guide him. And when Stiles gets the message he flushes. Slowly, he drags his hands up.

Derek’s hips follow.

The Shifter gasps with every slide down; the flushed mushroom head of his cock bobbing agreeably with every insistent motion of his boyfriend’s fingers.

Then Stiles gasps, and deep inside the man comes a rush of something. It’s not hot. It’s not cold. But it moves and it dribbles through him.

“Sorry,” the younger man apologizes softly. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t apologize for that,” Derek insists.

“But-”

Dragging his hand away from Stiles’, Derek takes hold of his shaft, the Shifter gives it a few solid jerks before he spills onto the pale chest before him, drops splattering his stomach and pooling in his sternum. Exhausted, he falls to the side, slipping off of Stiles’ dick and collapsing beside the man with a sated grin.

At the tip of Stiles’ lip are his thoughts from earlier, but he figures they can wait. For now he simply enjoys the gentle stroking of Derek’s fingers along the line of his chest.

The Shifter can feel his heart beating, and his blood pumping furiously, long after they’re recovered. But he says nothing. He’s content as they are, laying side by side with his hand tracing patterns inches from Stiles’ heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 200 kudos! We broke 200 kudos! I’m just… I’m literally jumping for joy. Thanks so much to everyone who’s read up until this point, and everyone reading now. Just one chapter to go - the epilogue!


	10. Mr. Umbrella (Part the Second)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the ever wonderful [Martina.](http://definitelyahalewolf.tumblr.com/post/118150646648/cafe-shifter-by-besieged-infection-down-a-side)
> 
> Thanks to Martina, Arnaud, Oliver, and Carrie for their endless support.

Pecking lightly at a bit of seed, feathers glistening in the afternoon sun, a small pigeon pivots in place, eyeing the cluttered sidewalk far below it. Her wings flutter as a breeze passes through the street. On the sidewalk, beneath a tall streetlight, a young girl looks up and names her Nemo. And thus Nemo the pigeon surveys the pedestrians with an uncaring eye, her feet shifting along the rail of a flag post. It is only when the air vibrates heavily with a scream that she takes flight, majestically soaring into the sky with outstretched wings and a partially open beak.

Only to plummet to the ground as another breeze smacks down the road, sending her careening to the ground.

Nemo pivots once more in midair, twisting to get her balance and swooping away from the sidewalk, wings slapping momentarily in the face of a large featherless monster that rides a vehicle at breakneck speed through a crowd of taller featherless monsters.

Stiles flinches and spits as the pigeon smacks him right in the face, careening down the hill with his hands poised over the wheels in preparation to made adjustments as they turn furiously, carrying him down the street. “Out of the way!” he shouts, blowing through his lips wetly in an attempt to dislodge a feather. He shoves his sleeves quickly up his arms as they begin to billow from his elbows, catching the air and flapping madly. The robes are traditional. Violet and proud, it clings to his knees and chest as his chair trundles down the street, proclaiming to all his newly graduated status. “Move it, move it!” He glances up at the fast approaching intersection with rising interest as stores pass him quickly by. “Come on, come one, green,” he murmurs as he approaches, flexing his hands in preparation, the leather of his racing gloves creaking in protest.

And, just in time, the light flickers to green and the crosswalk explodes into action.

“HAHA!” he screeches triumphantly. Tapping one hand on the right wheel, he swerves expertly around a smaller girl – nearly careening into a crowd of older men in the process – and screams through the street with a manic yell. “DISABLED PERSON COMIN’ THROUGH.”

“FUCK OFF,” someone shouts as he careens by them, air whistling through his ears and screaming past his face.

“GO FUCK YOURSELF,” Stiles shouts back. Throwing his arm over the back of the chair, he gives them a polite extension of his middle finger.

Trailing three blocks behinds, Derek chuckles lightly at the sea of people who move quickly out of his boyfriend’s path, clumping at the sides of the street as if he were staring at a lava lamp wrong.

It’s only when Stiles takes a sharp turn into a familiar café that Derek picks up the pace.

Jogging through the mass of people, the Shifter dodges quickly between freshly pressed suits and dyed dreads, eyes flickering every so often to the ink on display along exposed bits of skin. He thinks momentarily of his own tattoo, and his fingers itch to drift up and over his shoulder, slipping beneath his shirt to gently stroke the subtly raised skin of his back. But his hands remain at his sides, moving in tandem with his steps to keep his balance firm.

Two crosswalks later, he’s staring down the newly refurbished Café Shifter. As he passes, his fingers drag along a new sign that sits out front, the chalk recently retouched.

_Hot cocoa for Shifters and Humans._

And, on the back:

 _Graduating students drink free!*_   
_Valid for one drink, within reason._

_ _

The bell rings three times as Derek steps through the door; once as it opens, twice as it swings shut, the new black paint nearly leaving it invisible beside the wall.

Stiles is sitting happily in his chair, staring up at Erica and Boyd as they work furiously to keep up with the flood of robed customers. At his table, Scott, Malia, and Danny are bent over their phones.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Erica asks, handing a younger customer a small cocoa and whispering, “Have a good day!”

“Dinner and a movie, mostly,” Stiles informs her happily, gloved fingers playing along the edge of his wheels. “Dad and Melissa are meeting us at the theater.”

“What are you going to see?”

“What do you think?”

“Brobe?!”

Leaning forward to peck his girlfriend on the cheek, Boyd asks, “That’s the movie with the weird space ship, right?”

Handing off the last of the cocoas, Erica observes the finally empty line before smiling and pressing her lips quickly to her boyfriend’s cheek. “No, that was War of the Beliebers. Brobe is about aliens kidnapping and probing a group of frat boys and consoling them in the manner they are accustomed to.”

“No homo,” Malia and Danny whisper ominously in unison, sharing crinkled grins over their phones before turning their attentions back to the screens.

“I can see you’re excited about this,” Derek drawls, earning their attention.

“Derek!” Stiles coos, grabbing at his wheels to spin quickly around. “Took you long enough! You’re such a slow walker.”

He snorts. “Okay, Speedy Gonzales.”

As a slew of customers step through the door, Derek moves to the side.

“I’ll have your coffee in a bit, Derek,” Erica says, turning back to the customers with a half-wave in his direction.

Stepping toward their usual table, the Shifter affectionately toes the square taped to the floor beneath Stiles’ wheelchair before snatching a chair from another table with a grin. “How are your arms doing?” he inquires softly after Stiles grabs weakly at his cocoa, bringing it to his lips with a soft sigh.

“Fine,” his boyfriend manages before taking a small sip. “A little tired, but nothing I shouldn’t recover from before the movie.”

“Good,” Derek sighs.

“Do you guys have to be so mushy?” Malia complains suddenly. “It’s still gross.”

Stiles blows a raspberry, but before he can comment another chair is being pulled up to the table.

“I see you all got started without me,” Cora drawls bitterly, swinging her phone from its holster at her hip to point it towards the others, tapping quickly through a series of menus to bring up Flappy Kardashians. “Has anyone gotten the Golden Purse yet?”

“Scott has three,” Danny bites out bitterly.

“Scott?” Cora gapes, glancing up from her phone to eye the man in question. “You’re kidding.”

“I think he hacked it,” Malia snips.

“Please, if anyone’s hacked it, it’s Danny,” Stiles points out. “Scott would barely be able to log in.”

When Boyd pops down Derek’s coffee, Kira bursts through the door with a wide grin.

“You’re all here! Perfect.”

“What is it?” Erica asks, turning away from her customer momentarily to stare at the officer.

“The institute called about Isaac,” the woman tells them happily, tucking a lock of hair escaping from her ponytail behind her ear.

Cora glances up momentarily from her phone, but aside from this their table remains generally unruffled.

Shifting onto his elbows on the table, Stiles fixes the woman with a grin. “Is he doing alright?”

Kira nods eagerly. “His therapy’s going well. They’re talking about releasing him soon.”

“That’s great,” Malia drawls. “Maybe then we could have a complete pack.”

“Oh, come on. Peter can come out on weekends,” Cora points out dryly.

“Well, that’s all I got for today,” Kira tells them sweetly. Turning to Stiles, she throws her arms wide and exclaims,  “aside from _congratulations_! Do I get a hug?”

“Of course you get a hug,” Stiles drawls. Setting his mug gently on the tabletop with a light click, he grabs at the wheels of his chair to turn away from the table, rolling expertly up to the woman and extending his arms.

Falling to her knees, the Asian woman pours herself into his lap, giggling excitedly. “I’m so proud of you for graduating on time,” she coos, squeezing him tight. “That must have been hell.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” the man drones. “Derek practically did Calculus for me.”

“Oh?” she teases. “Is _that_ why you’re dating him?”

“Of course,” he adds sarcastically. “His winning personality and general perfection weren’t enough.”

“Sure you’re not dating him for his dick?” Malia drawls.

“Well, it certainly doesn’t seem to hurt,” Scott mutters back.

“That varies with lube,” Danny adds for good measure.

Pulling away, Kira rises to her feet and waves them all off. “Well, I have to get back to work. Hope everyone has a good one!”

“What time do you get off shift?” Cora asks, glancing up from her phone again just as Scott begins to cheer.

“Seven,” Kira replies softly.

Stiles glances between them curiously, but before long Erica is handing Kira a paper mug and telling her quickly, “It’s been added to your tab,” and Kira is on her way out the door. He pauses as the bell rings, trekking back momentarily to Stiles to bump her artificial leg to his limp one.

“Leg buddies,” she singsongs giddily.

“Leg buddies,” he adds off-key.

She retreats back to the door, and the bell rings three times before swinging shut.

Rising nervously from his seat, long fingers catching at the younger man’s shoulder, Derek bends forward to whisper, “Hey, uh… the movie doesn’t start until seven. Instead of going to that new Shifter friendly Thai place how about we…” His fingers drift further down, tracing an invisible line across the man’s shirt until it brushes Stiles’ inner elbow.

The younger man’s eyebrows rose sharply, and his mouth split in a wide grin. “Pretty sure Erica would kill us,” he whispers darkly. “And I don’t think their bathroom is large enough for both of us.”

“What? No,” Derek grunts. “No, their bathroom is way too small. I was – we could go home, instead. Have a night in. We could get Thai tomorrow. Or next week.”

“You just don’t want to be in public four times today,” Stiles accuses.

Derek shrugs, expression admitting, Well, you’re not wrong. “Well?” he asks instead, eyes flicking from their pack, to his coffee, and then finally to Stiles.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Stiles coos dryly. “But only after we’re done here.”

…

As the door to their apartment slides firmly shut, Derek drops to his knees and falls into Stiles with a wide grin.

“You’re like a barnacle,” Stiles complains breathily, wrapping his fingers in his boyfriend’s hair to pull them together, noses brushing lightly as their lips gently meet. They smack wetly, cracked lips meeting moist and plump. They remain like this for a short while, breathing each others air, before parting with a soft pop. “My barnacle.”

“I thought my nickname was pinecone,” the Shifter objects between small, amused chuckles.

Running his fingers down the man’s sideburns, Stiles slowly strokes through the rough beard barely inches from his nose. “You can be a barnacle and a pinecone,” he says matter-of-factly. “So long as you’re my pinecone.” Hands dropping to the man’s shirt, he pulls his boyfriend in by his tie. “Always my pinecone.”

“Always your pinecone,” Derek agrees amusedly, leaning forward to fasten their lips together, hands grabbing at the arms of the chair.

Stiles fingers find the seams of the knot, undoing it quickly and tugging the silk through the line of Derek’s shirt. He tosses it uncaring to the floor, earning an eager grunt. His tongue sneaks forward, drawing a line across the seam of Derek’s lips, delving forward when they split open wide, slotting warmly against his mouth.

Straying from the armrests, the Shifter’s hands flit to the violet robe, undoing the hook-n-eye with some difficulty before his fingers find the zipper, tugging it down in one go. At first there is a peek of grey – an eerily familiar dress shirt – followed by dark slacks. Tugging away from the kiss, saliva dribbling from his mouth to drip inelegantly onto his shirt, Derek gapes. “Is that my shirt?” he gasps, staring at it in utter shock.

“Huh?” Stiles asks, glancing down in surprise. He looks back up, surprised. “No. It’s mine.”

“Stiles, I loaned you that for Laura’s funeral.”

“And you never asked for it back. It’s mine. I’m claiming it.”

“Well, too bad,” Derek says matter of factly, grabbing at the collar and snapping his hands firmly apart. The buttons pop without much incentive, flying across the room as the shirt slips enticingly away from pale, speckled skin.

“Shit,” Stiles gasps, dragging him forward for a sporadic round of kisses. “That was so hot,” he begins, “but I fucking loved that shirt,” a hiss, “and I’m going to get you back for that later.”

“I look forward to it,” the Shifter promises, fingertips momentarily sharpening, drawing forward and curling ominously into claws as his eyes glitter beneath closed lids.

Slowly, shorter pecks linger. Breathes grow shallow. Fingers still against clothes as mouths seal together sweetly; chastely.

Hissing desperately through his nose, Stiles fingers drag down Derek’s neck to press gently against his shoulders. But as soon as the man begins to pull away his hands twist in the collar of his shirt.

Derek moves further forward, edging his knees up to the front of the chair with a grin. And when they draw apart for a larger, slower breath, he whispers, “I love you.”

The words carry through the apartment, echoing through the living room and playing across the younger man’s face like a sweet ocean breeze.

Lips twisting toward his eyes, Stiles leans forward to press their foreheads together. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, hands growing limp against the stiff fabric of Derek’s collar.

They remain like this for a while longer, breathing each others air, before their hands begin moving in tandem. Stiles’ – Derek’s – shirt is stripped off quickly, followed by pants and the robe. Their underwear lies forgotten under the small table where Derek keeps his key bowl; socks tossed somewhere in the direction of the couch; undershirts thrown toward the kitchen table.

Climbing into the chair, Derek throws his legs over the arm rests just as Stiles engages the wheel lock, grinding weakly against his boyfriend’s lap.

“Is that lube?”

“Yes.”

Stiles gasps. “Jesus, when did you get ready? Douching takes time and-”

“When you were getting your diploma,” the Shifter hisses. “In the bathroom. Told your dad I had to find Scott. Figured you’d call me if I was taking too long.”

“You fucking planned this, didn’t you?” Stiles gapes. “You never wanted to go to Thai.”

“I never wanted to go to Thai,” Derek admits, breath moist and heavy against the pale neck inches from him. His palms squeak wetly against the back of the wheelchair as they grip it. “Go on,” he urges. “You know what to do.”

Nodding, the younger man reaches carefully between their bodies, propping his dick against his boyfriend’s slick crack and nudging it gently against the hairy, furled hole at the base of Derek’s ass. “Ready?”

“For two hours,” the man snaps, knees curling against the rails as his elbows dip, partially enveloping Stiles’ cock.

Beneath him, the man gasps, hands dropping away from his dick to grip desperately at Derek’s hips, a hysterical cry slipping from between his teeth.

The chair creaks as the Shifter snaps his hips down firmly, impaling himself on the rest of his boyfriend’s length.

“We’re going to need more lube,” Stiles points out after the first few initial thrusts. Nails biting firmly into Derek’s hips, he gasps as the man rotates them firmly against his groin. “Jesus – stop that! We need more lube! Is there any in your pants?”

The Shifter shakes his head sharply. “I only brought a small tube with me, and I used that to get ready.”

“Fucking…” Stiles hisses as the man grinds down again. “Stop! I’m gonna take off the brakes and take us to the bedroom and – stop fucking moving!”

“God I love this angle,” Derek gasps as his legs strain against the back of the chair. His toes curl as he grunts, face twisting as his eyes glitter once more, bright blue in the dim light of their entryway. “Let’s just put off the lube for a bit longer.”

Stiles laughs nervously, then shakes his head. “Sorry, Derek. I know you a bit too well for that.” And with this his only warning, his swiftly disengages the brakes. For a brief moment they wobble as the chair attempts to slide forward. Stiles’ fingers find the wheels quickly, rolling them through the living room and down the hall as Derek thrusts weakly into his lap. They ride through the door, maneuvering quickly to the bedside table and tugging it open to retrieve a slick bottle of lube.

“Shit, we forgot to clean it off,” Stiles groans, eyeing the goop distrustfully.

Moving one palm to the armrest for balance, Derek snatches the bottle out of his boyfriend’s hand and pops the cap with practiced fingers. “Hand.”

“Greedy little fucker, aren’t you?”

“Stiles, I swear to God if you don’t open your hand and lube up your dick in the next three seconds I’m chucking this bottle into the trash can.”

“Okay, Jesus Christ. Don’t get your knot in a wad.” Offering up his hand, Stiles shivers as the gel is slowly squirted into his palm, attempting to coil over his finger as the tube suddenly sputters, spurting clear wads across the side of his chair before Derek recaps it and tosses it across the room.

Adjusting his knees where they fold over the chair back, the Shifter plants his hands firmly on the armrests with a smug grin. “Hurry it up, wouldn’t you?”

“This shit is cold,” Stiles complains.

“Then my ass will have to warm you up,” the older man snarks back.

Sliding his hand beneath the gap under Derek’s ass, the man hisses as the gel lights upon the flushed length of his cock. His fingers move quickly, spreading it down the velvety shaft before shooting to the head. Squelching wetly, the gel catches generously against the ridge of his dick, shining in the dim light filtering from the window blinds. “Okay, go,” he announces softly, hand holding himself erect.

“Finally,” Derek gasps, elbows snapping out as he drops down, pushing their hips flush together with a gentle whine. “God you feel amazing.”

Stiles tugs at his hand, urging Derek to move the leg pinning it to his thigh, and nods happily as it comes free. Reaching forward, he takes hold of Derek’s shoulders, pulling himself flush against the older man. He brushes his lips lightly against the Shifter’s jaw with a satisfied hum. “Thanks for keeping me warm,” he teases.

“My pleasure.”

“I’ll bet. Now move.”

“Bossy,” Derek snorts.

“Pinecone,” Stiles retorts, dropping another light peck along the line of his jaw. “Now hurry up before my ass adheres to this thing again.”

Chuckling lightly, the Shifter eases forward. His hands draw away from the armrests to grab once more at the chair’s back. It wails in response, polyurethane squealing from the abuse. Lifting himself carefully with his thighs, calves brushing the wide wheels and feet glancing against the wall, Derek draws up from Stiles with a soft puff of air. “You love it,” he teases as he strains forward, brushing his lips against the side of the younger man’s face.

“It’s not that pleasant, you-”

“I’m talking about my beard,” Derek interrupts quickly. “You love my beard.”

“Are we really talking about this now?” Dragging his hands up his boyfriend’s sides, sliding along the length of his torso before drawing up his front, carding through the thick hair curling along his chest. “I love your hair because I love you. Personally? I could do without.”

“Then should I get waxed?”

Stiles gasps as the man rocks his hips to the side, dragging the head of his cock along the shallow ridge just beneath his prostate. “Can we talk about this later? Oh my god.” Fingers dragging rigidly along the hairy torso before him, leaving long, rapidly fading red lines, Stiles hands tangle wetly in Derek’s hair. Lube smears across a tanned forehead and into a dark beard.

“We can, but we won’t,” Derek points out amusedly. Bending at the hips, he drags his nose along the crease in Stiles’ forehead. Fingers tightening against the chair, he pulls himself forward before his hands go back to the armrests, lifting himself quickly. He holds himself up for a moment, earning a tortured whine.

“Oh my god, you’re in a mood, aren’t you?” Stiles whines. “I knew you’d be in a fucking mood.”

Slowly, Derek drops back down. “Is that a complaint I hear?”

“I don’t want to be teased for three hours,” he whines, abs twitching along with his cock, nudging a soft spot deep in his boyfriend. He savors the small whimper that follows, arms tugging insistently at the man’s hair to pull his head forward. Their lips catch clumsily, tongues finding cheeks and chins before slipping together with a wet squelch just as Derek rises back up on his hands and snaps his hips forcefully down.

The wheelchair screams as he sets a bruising pace, and Stiles buries his face in the readily available beard with an uneven gasp. “Shit,” he grunts. “Shit, oh shit.”

Derek groans, the steady slap of skin sending waves up his torso, hot and twisting. His ass tingles, insides singing and screaming as the mushroom head of his boyfriend’s dick catches lightly at the fringes of his prostate. Feet twitching away from the wall as they knock a bit too sharply against the plaster, he leans forward a bit more. His lips strain for the soft, pliant flesh of Stiles’ lips, but instead his teeth fasten on the corner of a sharp jaw as he withholds a scream.

Fingers tugging lightly at Derek’s hair, Stiles gasps as the man’s teeth find their way to his jaw and his boyfriend begins to tremble. “Come on, dear,” he prompts. His eyes light as the man above him shivers at the name. “You can do it. You found your spot.”

The Shifter’s mouth drops open after a moment, and his legs strain against the armrests in time with the throb of his heart.

“Would you like help?”

Derek’s beard scrapes lightly against his cheek as the man nods, weak and desperate.

Moving his hands away from his boyfriend’s hair, Stiles slid them down to grab at wide hips, guiding them into a slow, simple roll. Above him Derek gasps, mouth falling open to reveal long, glistening fangs. His eyes shutter closed as they once again being to shine and his face begins to shift slowly away from human. Stiles watches in utter amazement as his sideburns lengthen and his beard grows thicker. Then, glancing further down, his gaze lingers on the length of the man’s dick. It stands proud from the seam of their hips, bobbing with each slow thrust and glistening with precum. And, just at the base, a small, reddish bulge juts from the flesh.

At the first touch of a hand against his groin, Derek whimpers.

“Dear,” Stiles murmurs softly, “you’re going to have to let me do this. I know it’s a bit much, but you’ll hurt after if I don’t.”

Grunting, the Shifter nods once more.

Reaching forward, Stiles clamps his hand around the small knot and gasps as the warm heat of the man’s ass clamps down sharply on his dick. The length in his hand pulses sharply as a soft growl punctures the silence. “Oh god,” he gasps.

Thrusting weakly into the grip, Derek whines deeply as his balls pull taught and he spills onto Stiles’ stomach. Long strings of ejaculate splash across his chest and dribble down his hips, spilling around where his hole has swollen, sealing them together. He buries his face in Stiles’ neck, hips thrusting weakly as he rides the waves of heat that slide through him. “Love you,” he manages to sputter wetly into the man’s neck.

Stiles smiles, gasping lightly as he feels himself pulse, and his fingers tighten around his boyfriend’s knot. “I love you too, dear,” he mumbles breathily.

For a while there is nothing but silence. Outside, the city is chaotic and screaming, but in the apartment life has paused to breathe.

…

“Next time,” Stiles hisses, mopping ineffectively at the dried mess of his chair with a large rag, “we are laying down a towel or something. I’m going to have to Simply Orange this fucker or something.”

Tugging a shirt over his head, Derek rolls his eyes. “Well, good luck with that. I’m going to grab us something to eat.”

“Grocery store’s closed,” Stiles points out dryly. “They close at five, remember?”

“Yeah, but the Thai place is open until ten,” he retorts happily.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Well, hurry back. We need to leave for the movie in an hour.” Holding his face up to the man, he demands, “Kiss.”

Derek chuckles, but after stepping into a pair of jeans he strides quickly over to press his lips gently to Stiles’.

“Drive safe.”

“You know I do.”

…

Drawing the apartment door closed behind him, Derek chuckles.

“Welcome home,” Stiles calls from where he sits in front of the couch, laptop perched on the coffee table.

“What are you listening to?” he asks as the sound of a trumpet floats from the speakers. “This isn’t your usual thing.”

“YouTracks,” The younger man grins, fingers playing with the space bar, bringing the music to an abrupt pause. “Louis Armstrong.”

“How come?”

Stiles shrugs, eyes flicking from the screen to the window. “I don’t know. Felt like dancing I guess.”

Grinning, Derek steps around the couch and restarts the track. The takeout is discarded quickly onto the table. A piano trills. “Then,” he begins, hands cupping beneath Stiles to lift him to his motionless feet, “let’s dance.”

“You serious?” the younger man gapes even as Derek pulls them flush together. His feet are slid over heavy boots, arms wrapped firm around broad shoulders, and slowly they begin to sway. Before too long, the croon of a trumpet fills the room. “Never figured you much for a dancer,” he admits softly.

“I’m not,” Derek tells him. “That’s Laura’s department.”

Stiles laughs. “Did you ever go to any school dances as a kid?”

The Shifter shakes his head. “Once. Middle school.”

“I bet Laura was your date.”

Derek snorts. “You know, my arms are feeling very suddenly weak.”

 _“Hold me close and hold me fast,_ ” Louis sings from the speakers.

“Drop me and die.”

“ _The magic spell you cast_.”

“Oh no, you’re slipping!” Derek gasps, bending at the waist to dip Stiles backwards.

“ _This is la vie en rose_.”

“You’re so stupid.”

“You love it.”

…

With their takeout demolished and the minuscule leftovers stored in the fridge, Derek turns on the TV for a traffic report.

 _"A large case was won today: The Shifters of New York vs. The State of New York,”_ a reporter announces, shifting uneasily in a bitter wind that blows in front of the courthouse, _“resulting in a penal sum to be submitted to every Shifter who was relocated or inconvenienced during the search for the Kanima near Flushing. This case has resulted in waves; waves that may illegalize the profiling of Shifters by the Police Force and make psychiatric profiling mandatory for anyone who seeks the Bite. More on this at 9."_

_“Traffic is backed up along-”_

Snatching the remote and keys from Derek’s hands, Stiles scoffs. “It’s only fifteen blocks,” he reminds him sharply. “We don’t have to drive everywhere we go.”

“I just figured you were… tired,” the Shifter answers selectively.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles waves him forward. “I am, so push me, oh great and powerful Shifter boyfriend. Put those ridiculous muscles I love to work.”

Derek snorts, but allows the man to turn off the TV without complaint. Stepping around the chair, he takes a firm hold of the handles and pushes them towards the door. He snatches their coats and an umbrella on the way out, nudging the wheels gently over the line of the threshold and a single, neglected button.

The hallway is silent, and the elevator ride passes without event, but just as they turn to leave the lobby Stiles grabs at Derek’s arm. “Just a second,” he says, tugging him around the chair.

The Shifter follows the guidance without much thought, circling the wheels until he stands before Stiles, the younger man’s hands bracketing his hips. “Yes?”

“One last kiss?” Stiles asks.

Grinning, Derek obliges.

Their eyes slide closed in unison – instinct – and Stiles’ hands slide up a familiar torso to rest on the dip of his collarbone. Mouths readily open for one another as they arch, carefully, freshly groomed stubble scraping softer skin a ripe red. Hands sliding further up, Stiles locks them around the back of Derek’s neck, and the Shifter leans forward to accommodate him so that he might hold him there. Presumably forever.

They pull apart, grin, and turn out the door and out onto the street. Suddenly, above them come a great crack of thunder, and a torrent of rain pelts down to pummel the ground.

“What-” Stiles gasps, shocked, but already Derek is producing a small, red umbrella, duct-taped within an inch of its life. He pops it open above their heads. It's not quite right on one side, but the rain sluices right off, slapping the ground in a giddy little beat.

"Let's go, then," Derek says, hand slipping down to pass the umbrella Stiles’ way.

At that moment, all around them, the city stops… and breathes.

Stiles grabs the handle with a grin, watching in amusement as the Shifter bends at the knee to fit beneath the poorly patched umbrella, and together they set off down the street. The wheels of his wheelchair leave twin lines on the sidewalk as they pass, rain kicking up off the concrete, but they fade before too long. As do Derek’s footsteps.

Life is funny like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Ccheck me out on [Tumblr](http://mutantbesin.tumblr.com/), where I... am vaguely active. (I check my messages. Sometimes.) Or on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/Besinfection)
> 
> Con-crit is encouraged. Listing typos is encouraged. Pointing out problematic themes is especially encouraged.


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